


Great Sun

by enveva



Series: Lionhead Spider [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, Amnesia, Angst, Blood and Violence, Cults, Dark Magic, Dialogue Heavy, Epic Battles, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Fairy Tale Elements, Historical Fantasy, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Masturbation, Matchmaker Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, Not Canon Compliant, Past Relationship(s), Plot, Post-The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt, Power Dynamics, Powerful Ciri, Rating May Change, Royalty, Slow Burn, Swords & Sorcery, The Witcher Lore, War, Warnings May Change, Witcher Contracts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:20:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 37,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28477542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enveva/pseuds/enveva
Summary: Geralt was a witcher, yes, he rode a mare named Roach, of that he was certain, and following three days of travel, this was all he could muster. Follow the White Wolf throughout the Continent as he pursues the pull of destiny and meets with friends, new and old to begin regaining his memory succeeding his disappearance of nearly two decades. Stories are shared of great battles and new memories are formed as our favourite witcher does what he does best: defeats monsters and denies any relationship to politics, all while something brews far off on the horizon. Oh, and some brewing powers seem quite familiar yet Geralt just cannot seem to put his finger on where their story began and where it had taken hiatus before his amnesia, worst of all, nobody seems in any rush to enlighten him. . .
Relationships: Emhyr var Emreis/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Series: Lionhead Spider [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2085879
Comments: 36
Kudos: 57





	1. A Note From the Author

Hello everyone! I wanted to drop in and say a few words before launching you off into this story.

Great Sun was inspired by one of the first [songs (at 1:27)](https://youtu.be/5fwviX8fdAU) I heard from Dandelion, both in Wiedźmin (the Polish Witcher from 2001) and in the first Witcher game where it was used again. I fell in love with this song, listened to it on repeat and the ideas for Great Sun fell into place around Dandelion’s gorgeous voice, I’d recommend you have a listen. For Great Sun, I’ve taken the liberty of nabbing bits of inspiration from the games, books and Netflix series and I want to give a big thankyou to [do_androids_dream](https://archiveofourown.org/users/do_androids_dream) for continuing to keep me on track along the (very long) way.

Many of the villages I will mention were made up by yours truly, along with some of the characters we’ll meet so I hope my creative liberty both with the universe and story style will be accepted as a result of my lack of patience with getting this fic idea on paper before playing through all of the games and finishing the books. This had me scrambling around for lore that I hadn’t encountered yet so I made everything a little easier on myself (and hopefully more interesting for you) by creating headcanons that mix with the canonical stories you might know and love from the books, games and series.

Feel free to follow my [Twitter](https://twitter.com/enveva) for micro updates while I edit and continue writing. As Great Sun is still a work in progress, expect weekly updates for the near future. Be warned that these update times may change when we near portions not yet finished. As always, comments and kudos are greatly appreciated!

Enough about me, grab your tankards and join me on this adventure!


	2. Massacre on the Shore

One nightfall, a man travelled on horseback towards the great sea and stopped at an inn on the roadside. The man knew the importance of caring for his horse, yet tied it to a post outside the inn before entering. Scowls and strange looks we’re ignored as the man held a hand to his throbbing head and signalled to the innkeeper.

“Yes, witcher? Be quick about it,” said the innkeeper.

“Have you a room?” The man asked. His accent. A Rivian, this far west?

“Depends, have you ‘nuff coin?”

The man furrowed his brows strongly for a moment, demanding the clarity of his buzzing mind. Heavy hands patted across seemingly foreign armour, a short sigh of relief and a satchel of coins was found and traded hands.

The innkeeper weighted the money out in one pudgy hand. “Hold ‘em out witcher,” his nose twitched as the witcher splayed open a palm and watched the satchel upturn and spew half of the remaining gold through his fingers.

Patrons huffed in amusement, adjusting their doublets and skirts as the man picked up each coin from the tavern floor along with the key to a room upstairs. “Bath’ll be sent up, ‘long with a meal. That’ll be all.”

“Appreciated," he'd huffed with barely any appreciation at all, "And my horse?”

“Behind the inn there’s a stable, be quick about it witcher ‘fore I rent out yer room.”

The man hummed shortly before returning to his horse, dodging the damning looks of the tavern goers and settling her within a quarter of the stables. He removed the mare’s tack, brushed her down and searched for a bucket of oats and water. He wasn’t sure how long the horse had gone without eating or drinking. Before she began to eat, the mare bared large yellow teeth and whinnied.

“Eat up,” said the man. He patted the mare’s head before leaving to reside to his room for the night where a bath of cool water, a lukewarm meal and a tankard of watered wine sat.

The man ate quickly with his fingers and guarded his bowl of thick stew and bread from the empty room. He was ravenous following days of travel in the heat of the summer sun and the wine blessedly soothed his dry tongue and throat.

Boots, long swords and heavy armour were removed and set across the floor along with the various belts, hooks and further weaponry. The man loosened the leather band holding back his hair and crouched into the round tub at the centre of the room. He hissed air through clenched teeth as hot scars met cold water. He couldn’t recall where they’d come from.

The Rivian toyed with the wolf’s head medallion against his chest for the better part of a while before a towel, handheld mirror and razor beside the bath were made use of.

The man wiped the foggy glass and hummed slowly at his reflection before turning his head side to side. He registered bright, golden eyes, a few impressive scars, a thick, white beard and thicker white hair tied loosely back.

He lathered his beard with unscented soap and began to shave choppily, the large scar spanning across his bicep forced his arm to twitch.

The muddied water was used to wipe down the armour and the two swords were cleaned appropriately. The man forewent the thin mattress to kneel by the unlit fireplace, he indulged the pull of a stronger force within him and closed his eyes.

///

At the third calling of a cock, the man’s eyes opened, and his arms ached as he stretched. His armour had dried overnight, the line of the sun peeked through the open window and lay across one naked shoulder.

Another had taken the innkeeper’s place behind the bar; he had a terrible stutter and had not accepted a piece of the man’s remaining coin for breakfast. The tavern was empty that early in the morning, but breakfast was warm, and the place was pleasant enough.

“Witcher,” the new innkeeper managed after a solid moment of blabbering.

“What is it, innkeeper?”

“Alderman. . . c-contract, b-b-beast on the sh-shore,” stuttered the man, horribly.

“I will see what I can do. Where is the alderman’s house?”

“M-many thanks,” he ushered a short woman in from the kitchen. “Alderman’s,” stuttered the young innkeeper, pointing to the door.

“‘Morning witcher,” nodded the madam.

“‘Morning madam.”

“To the alderman’s? Follow the roadside, sun warming your back. ‘Fore you reach the sand of the coast turn into the kiosk path, third building to the left.”

“My thanks, madam.”

“Safe travels, witcher.”

The Rivian finished his breakfast and left a coin beneath the tankard of water before greeting his horse a good morning. The mare bucked her head to his chest with an annoyed huff. The bucket of oats was empty. With an amused, rumbling sound, the man hand fed a few fistfuls of hay to the mare before tacking her up and leaving the inn behind his back.

The pair followed the roadside and turned into the line of kiosks before locating the alderman’s house. Without much fanfare the man introduced himself as a witcher in search of a contract and nothing more.

“Pox, you’re right on time. A water hag’s been terrorising some travellers, already killed a couple. Comes out at the fall of the sun,” said the alderman.

“Where on the shore does it hunt? A number of deaths had to have occurred to attract a hag repeatedly.”

“Quite so, a few Nilfgaardian soldiers became rowdy one-night last week, they were holding prisoners, travelled from the inn by the road and killed them on the shore. One of the emperor’s men has already sent a letter of apology along with monetary compensation to the families of the prisoners. Said those soldiers’ve been removed from the Nilfgaardian corps, good thing that. Accept the contract?”

“I accept.”

“Good, I will require proof for your coin. Sixty crowns upon your return.”

The man and his mare continued through the path of the kiosks in search of supplies. One thing he remembered was how to kill monsters.

The mare was safe in another stable for the eve as the man followed the stench of rotted flesh across the empty shore before crouching behind a mound of sand to wait. Sharp scents mingled with the salty tang of the sea as the witcher smoothed whetstone along the length of his silver sword. Old and acrid, it was kept carefully wrapped in a little cloth and untouched for a while. The first sight of the moon was his signal to continue on.

Growls and gobbles and the cracking of bones from not far off alerted the witcher into a stance of attack, the two-handed sword making tiny circles at the tip. He approached with practiced grace and silence and watched the water hag as it noticed him. Its wrinkled body recoiled; the spines of its back tremored and a chunk of stinking flesh dribbled through its claws. Blank eyes flicked between the witcher and his sword before a piercing screech filled the shore and a gob of wet sand was catapulted towards the man.

The witcher sprang into action, dodging the first gob before having to shake a second from his eyes. He dove towards the hag, silver sword sheer and reflecting the moonlight as he swung at its talons. The witcher missed and growled as he traced a semicircle in the wet sand beside his boots in attempt to distract the monster.

His second swing missed once again, heavy muck clung to his armour and weighed down his feet as the hag retreated deeper into the tide with a sickening sob.

The witcher followed, rotting flesh of the prisoners killed there and wet sand was washed from his boots as he entered the water. The hag’s skin was thin, full of warts and plastered badly over brittle bones and muscles which had rotted long ago. The witcher held it in his heart to feel sorry for it, dead with no peace. Stinking of muck and fish, the hag screeched and lunged forwards, she disappeared below the sea, talons outreached and body moving swiftly through the shallow water.

The witcher hissed as a stray claw caught at his calf, the hag sped around his feet and he plunged his sword blindly into the water. The following few strikes were close, nicking her filthy skin as she swam. He watched her gurgle at each pass of his sword, quickly captured her tactic of causing a flounder of sea foam as a cloak across her body. The witcher struck her shoulder, a squeal beneath the water, the silver slid naturally over her fragile collarbone and sliced into her neck, aided by the ebb of the tide.

His eyes narrowed for a moment while the hag thrashed, and impossibly weak muscles quivered and melted around the sharp edge of the blade. With a harsh tug, the witcher’s silver passed through her neck as he crouched into the tide and knotted his fingers into slimy hair. Her body went still before washing away with the shore. The witcher sheathed his sword at his back before wading himself and the water hag’s head out from the tide and getting to work on removing her rotted teeth for evidence of the hunt. This was comfortably familiar to him.

With the teeth in his pocket, the Rivian entered the alderman’s home, accepted his coin, made notice for the proper removal of the bodies from the massacre on the shore and took back his mare. The town had begun to bustle as the sun set, kiosks lit by oil lamps and children swinging wooden swords above their heads. It was time the witcher took his leave, stinking of fish and gore. His horse gaited behind him, lead by a bit which she knew to chew on when afraid and the pair made camp outside the borders of the village until morning.

At the fire, the witcher tended to his wounds and meditated in attempt to regain information he knew was lost. He recalled the last three days of travel, that the mare was familiar and of his purpose in life as a witcher. No recollection of his name, age, nor people he may have known before he set off from an unknown fort alongside an escort of knights with waning moons painted over surcoats.

Golden eyes scrunched tighter in thought as the witcher sorted through the overwhelming blackness of his mind. He arranged morsels of information he had left for hours on end, he knew this horse, he knew her, and that medallion on his neck had to mean something. As far as he waded through the titbits of memories he was certain he had, all that was left were the backs of people’s heads, prickles of their scents. Faceless friends he knew had meant the world to him, far away now, the heat of the fire had long become uncomfortable.

“Roach,” said the witcher slowly, cat-eyes shot open and turned to the horse. “You’re Roach.”

The mare whinnied happily, bucked her head and tapped at a tuft of lush grass with her hoof. The witcher smiled and sat back on his bedroll. That was enough meditation for one night.

///

Roach drank happily at a freshwater spring as the witcher arranged her tack and his various saddlebags across her back. The pull towards the coast, towards Skellige was a natural starting point for the witcher. He would work his way north-east and back down through the kingdoms of the Continent in search of contracts and old friends to freshen his mind and, all providing, return his memories.

“Here’s to hoping they notice me first,” mumbled the witcher to his mare before knocking back a few dregs of spring water and clicking at Roach to continue down the path. His next stop was miscellaneous, a fishing village; Rannvaig of Ard Skellig, with a wild dog problem. A human fisherman was prepared to pay up for the beasts to be killed.

“Dogs been stealin’ me fish jerky, pox honourin’,” said he.

This set the Rivian back a few hours, the slashing of forged steel was familiar at least. The weight of his second two-handed sword was pleasant and dogs were easily distracted by semicircles drawn in the dirt.

“Stop by me son’s inn, serves me catches there. Tell ‘im Yalmig sent ya.”

“My thanks,” the witcher nodded and set off towards the inn belonging to Yalmig’s son, twenty coins richer. Roach brayed at the prospect of being tied to a tree in front of the tavern and pawed at the floor as the Rivian entered.

The witcher was served a spread of halibut, steamed potatoes and bread, along with a thin fish stew which Yalmig’s wife apologised for, “Weren’t expecting visitors, see, little festival in the forests near Fayrlund.”

“I don’t mind. Appreciate the meal.”

“Grand thanks, master witcher, for ridding us of those dogs, rarely does your kind wander as far as these parts.”

“Not many of us left,” said the witcher and truly wondered who was still taken to the Path. That too was familiar to him.

“No mind, our thanks. Consider Rannvaig yer village and this inn yer inn,” Yalmig’s wife smiled crookedly and served another round of watered ale.

The fisherman had held the Rivian by the shoulder and confirmed that if he was ever in need, he would make sure that everything was free for the master witcher in Rannvaig for while he and his family lived.

With an easy hint of a smile on his face, the witcher and Roach continued their journey through virgin forests and untrammelled landscapes. The pleasant scent of the sea wafted across the air and the witcher pondered whether the salt would stick to Roach’s mane for long.

///

Following many hours of meditation, the witcher recollected some memories of basic Signs. He extinguished and relit the campfire a few times although could not muster anything more. A simple belt of the next Sign merely tremored the branches of a nearby tree, another calmed Roach for a few moments as she worked herself up over a handsome bushel of poppies.

He remembered practicing these Signs, gruelling days upon days with dummies yonder in mountains which hazed in his mind when merged with a grand structure of which he could not put together. A foreign memory trickled nearer of someone close, dragon’s fire spewing from their palm. He could not for the life of him remember their names, nor how to trigger them at an intensity much larger than what he'd practiced following hours of meditation.

With a pained grimace, the Rivian cracked his knuckles and stood from his meditative kneel. Roach huffed while the witcher attempted to fall into a weary sleep and bordered on the edge of consciousness for the long hours of the night. He wondered whether the dragon-man in the mountains was important and listened to the fire crackle itself to death.

The morning came alongside the scuffling of unlucky rabbit’s feet and the inevitable sputtering of their fat over the witcher’s fire. He had succeeded in manoeuvring the dagger from his side to scrape at the underside of the two hares’ pelts while he relished in the little lean meat on their bones. The sun had not fully risen, and the scent of morning dew was soothing alongside the pleasant sting of salty air. Roach trotted to a nearby stream and the witcher tacked her up, his armour clinking and shuffling as he mounted the mare’s back and once again the pair was off.

The Rivian held an inkling that destiny’s word had long went unheard by him, the feeling of following its pull along the roadside was foreign and gratifying. It felt interesting to let himself be led by Roach. . . peaceful even. They passed a merchant’s carriage which sat shut behind a row of bushes and the witcher told his horse that they were near to a village.

A signpost at the border of a town in the forest confirmed this. The medallion at the witcher’s chest vibrated.

Baeg Blath, a non-human settlement, within a long forgotten Nilfgaardian settlement turned safe haven for travellers. The witcher and Roach had travelled for a few hours, it was no surprise that the little population had begun their daily activities. Kiosks were open, the Rivian even took wind of a dwarven blacksmith and hummed to himself as a werebbubb crossed Roach’s path hurriedly. The witcher hopped from his saddle to the forest floor and watched as the various races buzzed around the reservation, all busy with their jobs. A dwarf harrumphed at him while sneakily feeding Roach an apple from his wicker basket.

“Witcher,” said a smooth voice. The Rivian turned from the dwarf and was greeted by a sleek woman adorned in silken dress. Her dark skin was spotless and her neck long and graceful, pointed ears sat unconcealed through long hair.

“Yes,” supplied the witcher, eloquently.

“Your kind has not wandered here for an age, what has changed?” The elf asked, nearing slowly.

“My horse led me here.”

“Interesting, Roach, is it?” She patted the mare’s head and smiled softly as the horse huffed and pursed her lips.

“Yes. . ." he eyed his horse for a moment. "An elven mage?” Said the Rivian.

“Your deduction is unmatched, witcher. Adda aep Sorra, I am the mage of Baeg Blath. Come, your mare has quite a stimulating energy about her. I am sure that your story is as intriguing.” The witcher followed the elf through the reservation, watched closely as she would pause every few moments to greet those who approached her. Adda first led the way to the few stables and waved off the Rivian’s coin, she explained that the many travellers who visited Baeg Blath were short of coin so necessities such as stables for their horses, rooms and a single meal through the day were provided free of charge for whoever passed through.

The pair then made their way to a cottage in the centre of town which revealed itself as a cosy tavern when they entered. Adda gestured to a bench at the far wall, near to the empty fireplace where the witcher took a seat as the elf ordered a round of wine and some soup.

“My thanks,” said the Rivian, lifting his tankard.

“Wet your tongue, witcher, and tell me where you’ve been.”

“My horse and I had travelled for a few days to reach Skellige,” he cleared his throat after downing a few dregs of wine, “Thought it must be nice to start a season this far west. Work through the Northern kingdoms. Just passed through Rannvaig, and before then I was at the Coast. What brought you to this settlement?”

“I thought as such,” smiled Adda as she drank, “I was once a traveller, much like yourself. Weaned from the enclaves of Dol Blathanna and disguised myself as best I could to live the life of a nomad. . . go ahead, while it’s warm,” she nudged the bowl of soup further across the table and continued when the Rivian began to drink, “. . . my father was a mage, one of those left in Dol Blathanna. Taught me all I know, he was held in high regard, refused to ever progress to assist the nobles. Never was too interested in politics, much like your kind. He went missing a few months before his death, just as I returned from my trek of the borders to the southern kingdoms.”

“May the ground rest lightly upon him.”

“All providing,” said Adda. “I supported my mother and younger brother until he became old enough to care for her, the two of them are alive and well in Dol Blathanna although I’ve offered many times for them to join me here.” She magicked a bottle of wine and refilled their tankards. “As no doubt you’ve taken note, Baeg Blath is quite near to human settlements. Before this reservation, non-human travellers were forced to stay in human villages. Vedral Dhoval, a dwarf and my dear friend, made camp on this land and found that humans who walked through this little space we own took no notice of him, nor his horse and cart.”

“My medallion has been vibrating ever since I arrived,” said the witcher before continuing with his meal.

“We believe that hamadryads long ago must have created some sort of portal separating Baeg Blath from the human realm. Their brilliant connection to this forest before humans drew the path you followed must have supplied them with the energy to conserve this reservation for non-humans who they were certain would respect the land and live alongside it and not against. Although, as you saw witcher, we have few buildings and salesmen, families, we are not strong in number so Vedral and I decided that Baeg Blath would be safe and sacred ground for travellers. We’ve plenty of room for those who stay for a while, it brings us joy to share this land with those in need.” She paused to drink.

“Carry on, Adda. This is interesting. I’ve never heard of anything like it. Are there other reservations like Baeg Blath around the continent?” The Rivian asked. Adda grew silent in thought.

“A long time has passed since I thought of leaving Baeg Blath, lost my nerve for adventure after my third hundredth winter. You could ask Vedral, he is the blacksmith at the border. He’s made many friends who came and went, some stayed. Never witchers, my apologies for the advance on you and your horse.”

“No worry. Our numbers are dwindling. You said three hundred years, how many of those have you spent here?”

“Oh, gods. Let’s see,” sighed the elf, reminiscing, “Nearly a century. Wouldn’t change it for anything, I have learnt many things and heard many a-tale from passers-by. My life has been full of magic and secrets since the day I was born, when I met Vedral it seemed time to settle down. My adventures had taken me far enough. I wonder for you, witcher, and of your adventures. How far have they taken you?”

The Rivian hummed and leaned back on his bench, “Not certain on how far they’ve taken me, curious for how much longer’s left.”

Adda smiled forlornly and the pair paused to finish off their meals and drinks. “Not a big believer in destiny, are you, witcher?”

“Can’t say I am.”

“Well, I for one am quite eager to see how the rest of your adventure will play out. For now, I must bid you goodbye and safe travels, I am required at my cottage.”

“Thank you Adda, for the meal and the company.”

“It is my pleasure, witcher, do visit Baeg Blath again once you regain your memory,” and like that the elf was gone. How did she. . . The Rivian shook his head and huffed a laugh into his tankard before he exited the tavern as well.

Roach shook her mane and whinnied; she pressed her head to the witcher’s chest before obediently following the pull of her reigns to the blacksmith at the edge of the reservation. The hiss of scorching metal to cool water greeted the witcher as he entered and stood at the short counter.

“’Fternoon. What can I do ya for?” The dwarven blacksmith wiped his hands on his clothes.

“I’m looking for Vedral Dhoval.”

“By pox ‘tis I. Don’t ya tell me they’ve started sendin’ witchers on dwarves now!”

“Not yet,” grinned the Rivian at the dwarf’s heavy chortle.

“How can I be of service then, witcher?” Asked Vedral.

“This is my first time in Baeg Blath, I’ve just returned from a meal with Adda aep Sorra. She told me to come to you with any questions I have.”

“Sounds like her to send a witcher my way, nearly stopped me breathin’!”

“My apologies.”

“Not at all, not at all. Questions, ay? Ask away then,” Vedral called his apprentice to finish the job he had started, picked up his pipe and lead the Rivian to a set of chairs in the courtyard of his shoppe with a heavy hobble to his step. The witcher was quite a touch larger than most races inhabiting Baeg Blath, the dwarf paid no mind to the Rivian’s knees sticking up as they sat and waved to Roach who waited patiently on the roadside.

“Adda wasn’t sure whether more reservations like this one existed.”

“Ah, yes. Well, haven’t had many chances to leave Baeg since I got here an’ opened up shoppe. . . mind if I smoke?”

“Go ahead.”

Vedral puffed on his pipe a few times and sighed before leaning back in his chair and waving to a werebbubb walking past, “Took a while to settle in, longer for people to start comin’ by. Made the sign coupl’a decades ago. Adda and a few others were here nearly from the beginnin’. Back to yer question, never had the chance to go travellin’ that far personally. More of a homebody, me. Although, have heard a coupl’a stories from the ol’ wanderers ‘round these parts. A dryad was headed back to ‘er own forest when she exclaimed, somethin’ ‘bout Baeg Blath bein’ just like a place further east where a dragon man would stay with two women, an elder elf an’ dwarves old ‘nuff to be my grandfathers. Wouldn’t know its name ‘fter all these years, could bet it’s yonder near Brokilon. Touch more interestin’ than ol’ Baeg.”

“Never been anywhere like this, I’m thankful for your hospitality.”

“Grand, yer welcome, witcher. Were ya plannin’ to stay overnight?”

“My mare and I left a village not long ago, would hate to get her used to pampering.”

“Ah yea. Well then, best be off, metal ain’t gonna weld itself. . . Safe travels, witcher, hope to see ya again,” said Vedral with a final few puffs of smoke. The Rivian thanked him once again, stood from the blacksmith’s courtyard, mounted Roach and bid Baeg Blath farewell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Baeg Blath translates to ‘little flower’ in Elder Speech.


	3. In a Name

The witcher paid good money for the trip across archipelago gulf to land at the Peixe de Mar near a broader Cintran coast. He spent the trip listening to an old miner huff around the soot in his lungs; a story of his daughter and her position in one of Cintra’s knightly orders. Roach butted her head against the Rivian’s chest when the waves went choppy for a while, she was used to many things, sea travel being one of the few the mare was averse to.

Quickly did the pair hurry from the dock, the witcher followed his intuition. The shapes of Cintra were hazy, blurred in his mind yet when Roach stepped hoof on the road into the woods, those shapes became slightly more familiar. He recognised this path somewhat and trusted it to lead him to where he needed to be.

///

Few hours into their journey, Roach had spotted a rich brush of honeysuckles and took her time to inspect. It was surprising that she hadn’t found the need to vomit the lush grass she had eaten the morning of their sea voyage now that they were on dry land. The witcher drank his water and studied the sky. A storm was brewing; heavy clouds ready to pour. With a short hum, the Rivian downed a few dregs from his waterskin and clicked for Roach to continue onward.

The clatter and thrum of a horse’s hooves thundered across the gravel in place of the thunder from the sky. A horn sounded behind the witcher before a quick yell filled the once silent forest. Roach reared off to the roadside with a neigh as the intruding horse galloped beside her.

“ _T’yer right_!” Shouted the rider over his shoulder and the woman sat behind him laughed with glee. The witcher stroked a hand through what he could reach of Roach’s mane in an attempt to calm her down. The intruding rider reined his horse back, mirth written over his features as he spoke softly to the giggling woman who, the Rivian realised, sat naked as the day she was born on the saddle behind him. She was quick to wrap her arms around the rider when her eyes locked with the witcher’s, hunting horn crossed over the man’s stomach.

“Could it be. . . _pox_ it is! _Geralt_! Geralt of Rivia!” Yelled the man, trotting his horse to Roach. The witcher’s brows furrowed.

“You are mistaking me for some–”

“’Course I ain’t, it’s me! Nivellen, old guest!” Said the man, handsome and well into his middle ages with a beastly grin.

“Nivellen,” repeated the Rivian slowly.

“Yes, Nivellen! I’d be sure you’d remember me as one Degen or Fanger if you weren’t the one to crack the curse, old guest!”

“My memory has been compromised, Nivellen,” said the witcher. “My name and yours is a riddle to me,” something insinuated that he could trust the stranger with this information.

“Pox on it then. . . you and your horse’ll follow, witcher,” the woman behind held tighter to his belly. “Old guest, I won’t be the one to leave you like this.”

The Rivian turned his eyes from the man to the woman then to the sky. He nodded. Nivellen laughed.

“Lead the way,” said the witcher.

“Come then, pox be!” The man reined his horse back to the road, “Geralt of Rivia,” he repeated to the woman with breathless disbelief.

The witcher followed the pair on their horse and kept his eyes well away from the woman’s bare back and slim legs.

Nivellen led them past a signpost in the thick of the woods, he had veered off the roadside some time ago and into the village of Dearg Craag. The Rivian’s eyes traced the expanse of the town, its people and the familiar bustle of kiosks and shoppes alike. The woman had thrown Nivellen’s cloak over her shoulders and shuffled closer to the man before they entered town. Roach continued and huffed once in a while, beyond annoyance that her honeysuckle treat was promptly cut short.

Nivellen turned off into a side path beside a salesman’s kiosk and continued through the maze of Cintran side roads before clicking his tongue. His horse stilled beside a decorated cottage, fence and all. The woman hopped from atop the horse and hurried off into the house, a giggle sounding off behind her. The witcher dismounted Roach and led her to Nivellen’s stable before feeling a pat on his back. Roach huffed as the Rivian turned with the grinning man hanging off his shoulder.

“Geralt of Rivia, never thought I’d see the day. Thought you up and left the North after the whole. . .” the witcher’s brows furrowed further, “. . . _pox_ , you _really_ don’t remember,” said Nivellen before the crack of thunder and the first few drops of rain pulled the pair’s eyes to the sky. “No mind, come inside, and quickly now. I’ll tell you a story not unlike the one from our first meeting. Might reorganise your marbles.”

///

“Fenne!” Nivellen yelled through the cottage, “Be a dear and ready us some supper! Come now, witcher, we’ve got some talking to do yet.”

The Rivian was led to an ample sitting room and sat at a simple table crafted of wood. He accepted a chalice from the woman and drank the grape wine as Nivellen cleared his throat and sighed.

“Geralt of Rivia?” Asked the witcher, before humming around his mouthful of wine.

“One and only,” the man grinned. “First of anyone’s kind to willingly enter my home, unafraid, sword on his back. Was a long time ago that, would’ve forgotten by now if not for the peaceful life I live now. Meant to thank you for what you’d done. . . pour yourself some more wine. To your health, Geralt.”

“And to yours, Nivellen,” the pair toasted and drank quickly.

“That’s grape, that. Same as the one we drank in Redania. . . I’ll explain. I was cursed before you came along, told you the story of how and why. . .” Nivellen watched Geralt’s reaction. “My father and his father had led countrymen, hoard of ‘em around to terrorise locals for years. Pa was found dead at the end of a sword few months after my ninth winter and like a piglet in command of wolves, I had inherited his position. Nivellen; great gang leader, ‘magine that.”

Geralt huffed behind his chalice and gestured for the man to continue. “We’d gone as far as Gelibol, up into a temple. . . pour some more wine. . . and plundered the priestess’ fortune. Amongst other things. . .”

“Speak plainly, Nivellen.”

“I became a man that day, ten winters on my back, ‘long with ten bloodthirsty countrymen amongst priestesses. You can guess what came of that. Head priestess I encountered was of Coram Agh Tera, spat in my face, cursed me as a monster in monster’s skin and pushed a blade into her chest then and there. Few days following, I awoke with the head of a beast and the mind of myself. Ended up scaring off the house’s staff, caused a ruckus. The manor I’d lived in all my life somehow fell into my control; I’d gained magic. . . enough to survive, nothing powerful. Could summon feasts and wines and baths, could keep the house as dark and as lit as I wanted. I was stuck in that curse for many winters to come.”

Fenne – now dressed in drooping green satin – laid out a tray of dried fish, nuts and boiled eggs along with a wicker bowl of warm sweet buns before taking a seat beside Nivellen at the table.

“Dig in,” smiled Fenne at the witcher as she nabbed a boiled egg.

Geralt nodded in thanks and tore at a few sections of fish meat, “Carry on, Nivellen.”

“Pox, where was I? _Ah_ , yes. Well, the manor had a lovely rose garden, my aunt had cared for it before the curse, and strangers were not averse to picking at my flowers if they hadn’t heard the tale of the beast who lived there. I’d have the house thrash its shutters and roar with all my might to scare ‘em off. One of those days, a man had gone picking through my aunt’s rosebush and I’d gotten an idea. . . do try the sweet buns, Fenne’s quite famous for them. . . I demanded the man bring me his daughter in exchange for a morsel of the riches beneath the manor. I would keep her for a year, the second was Fenne,” Nivellen smiled at the woman, she beamed back. “Now, one day, a white haired witcher had the gall to trek to my manor, not show an ounce of fear at my ruckus and so began the interrogation of a lifetime. You hadn’t called me a monster although my head was that of. . .”

“I’d say a large bear,” hummed Fenne, crossing her legs under her dress.

“Right,” Nivellen nodded and grabbed a sweet bun, “I’d asked you who you thought’d win in a battle between the two of us.” Geralt took a sip of wine, leaned back and smiled. “Pox on it, you’d reacted just like fuckin’ that,” laughed Nivellen, “Knew I’d like you after that.”

The witcher nodded for the man to keep going.

“I’d told you everything I knew, ‘bout the curse and the women, we had a feast I’d conjured up. You’d told me about how curses could be lifted, and I’d denied, told you how I was much stronger than the little porker leader of countrymen I used to be. Didn’t want nor need a change, thanks much. Now, the woman who was with me at the time you visited, Vereena, was a bruxa. Unbeknownst to me, I was sure she was a rusalka, spoke in a tongue I could not understand, pox, rarely spoke _at all._ You’d deduced, Geralt, that she was readying me to become a protector, drinking the blood from the territory she’d created around my manor. We ended up killing her together, I’d ran out just in time, stabbed her through the chest with a pole. She’d told me she loved me and died, lifted the priestess’ curse and I became what you see today. . . if not a little younger,” the man chuckled as Fenne smiled.

“My thanks, Nivellen. How did it end that you and Fenne found each other afterwards?” Geralt asked as Nivellen downed a few dregs of wine.

“Now, Fenne was due to marry a widower after our year together, I’d hunted her down after the curse’d been lifted and begged for her hand, paid the widower all I had left of that fortune under the manor and here we are today,” sighed Nivellen gleefully and stretched his legs out under the table. Fenne grinned at him before stealing a few sips from his chalice and twirling off into the back garden to watch the rain.

Geralt nodded and continued eating, as Nivellen also finished his meal. “You’ve done it again, witcher, asked all of the questions and told me naught ‘bout yourself.”

“Apologies, you may ask me anything.”

“Well. . . since when’ve you been without memory? Even your own name?”

“. . . I remember opening my eyes and riding my horse into Skellige just over a week ago. Next to nothing else. If you hadn’t met me today, I would probably still be without a name.”

“Pox on it,” sighed Nivellen. “Any idea what could’ve caused it?”

“None,” Geralt hummed. “Been following trails around, ended up in Cintra by following Roach's nose.”

“Well then,” said the man after a moment of silence, “If it’s any consolation, you’ve a home here with me and Fenne for the while. We’d be happy to have you settled here ‘til you catch wind of where to journey next. You saved my life, Geralt, it’s the least I could do.”

The Rivian pondered a moment as he chewed, then paused to drink his wine. “I must be on my way, in the morning.”

“Of course, we’ve a spare room you can take for the night. Let the rain ease up, be sure to break fast with us tomorrow.”

“My thanks Nivellen. I am grateful.”

“We are even, Geralt, you owe me nothing.”

That night, Geralt fell into a light slumber, lulled by the rain.

///

Following a breakfast of the food left over from supper, the witcher bid Nivellen and Fenne goodbye with the promise that he would return someday. Nivellen had patted him on the back with a knowing look in his eye before Geralt mounted Roach and joined Fenne on the roadside to watch the Rivian ride off.

The ground at Roach’s hooves was mucky and drenched from the evening’s storm, the clouds had not yet cleared from overhead although these did not smell of rain. Petrichor consumed his senses, along with the scent of hay following his mare. He was sated for the while; Geralt’s stomach was full although his mind had begun to churn.

He made his way out of the maze of back alleys and winding village roads. After hearing Nivellen’s story, he recalled a few sections that wandered in and out of his memory of the beast in the manor. The tremoring shutters, his paws as he slammed the table and magicked more wine, even Vereena and her long, dark hair. The witcher clicked his tongue as he left Dearg Craag behind and pushed Roach into a faster trot, being careful of the sodden road and filth that washed into the road after the rain.

He could not recall why he hadn’t stopped for a contract there. The town seemed content as it was without the work of a witcher within it. Who was Geralt to disturb their peace?

The Rivian continued on the path, stopping once for Roach to have a drink at a spring that followed the roadside. Geralt was sure of a few more things now, his name for one. It felt as though he’d once again pulled on a pair of boots he’d worn in long ago but hadn’t seen for an age: just right. The name identified him as he identified himself with it. The overarching cloak of familiarity covered him once again as he thought of his name and of this Rivia he knew of long ago that was decidedly less familiar.

Geralt, _Geralt_? _Geralt_! He must have heard it all before. The voices in his memories said his name over again.

“ _Geralt_!” The sharp laugh of someone melodical.

“ _Geralt_ ,” hummed an annoyed voice, a woman.

“ _Geralt,_ ” laughed the voices of two boyish men.

“ _Geralt_!” An older voice huffed.

“ _Geralt_?” Rumbled a heavy voice. He was not sure where to place that one. It interested him most.

The witcher and Roach made good ground and were set to reach a new village soon, along with a contract, everything providing. He had saved a few sweet buns that Fenne had forced him to bring along on his journey. She’d also thrown in a few apples for Roach. 

The pair set up camp a ways off into the woods and enjoyed a few bites of their respective snacks before Geralt meditated. The forest floor was too damp for a fire, the air had become choppy and hollow following the storm. The witcher paid no mind while he ran through those voices conjured during the rain. He awoke feeling worn and tired, although his head had cleared considerably.

Roach brayed at the prospect of more apples she noticed dangling from a satchel forged of old fishing net. Geralt smiled at her and shook his head before finishing up some dried fish and packing up camp. He adjusted a few belts of Roach’s tack and checked her over for scrapes and scratches. He hadn’t the time at Nivellen’s to give her a proper check-up during the rain, their next town should have had a stable where he too could rest overnight.

“Sound good, Roach?” Geralt ruffled a gloved hand through the mare’s fringe and made a rumbling sound as she nodded her heavy head. The witcher filled his waterskins at a freshwater lake and sat to watch the sun rise while stray strands of grass tickled at the sliver of arm showing between glove and tunic. Roach looked strapping with the witcher’s cast iron sword buckled across her side and Geralt smiled slowly while readjusting the silver across his back.

///

The next village, Tuathe, held a much poorer population. Men and women alike wore rags shaped around their bodies, trousers of scratchy wool. Their noticeboard was eerily full of the names of missing people, handwritten in watered-down ink. Geralt hummed to himself as he studied each name before dismounting his mare.

“Aye witcher,” warbled an elderly saleswoman from her kiosk near the board.

“These missing people, what do you suspect caused this?” Said Geralt.

“The fingers yearn for sterling silver,” she crowed. Geralt held back any noise as he handed her a silver coin. “My thanks witcher, not as bad as you seem.”

“The missing people.”

“ _Ah yeees_ ,” said the old woman, “Mainly children, babes to the older ones. Plucked like cotton bushels, witcher. Must be a contract in it for you somewhere, if not for how poor we was.”

“Have you an alderman?”

“That rickety cottage at the end of this road holds ‘im.”

“My thanks.”

Geralt led Roach to the alderman’s house and studied the crowd bustling across his path. His eyes locked with a young woman’s who he beckoned with a nod of his head. She scrounged over, weary and slow.

“Sir witcher?” Said her soft voice.

“Mind my horse a while,” the Rivian threw a copper coin her way.

“Yes sir.” 

Geralt’s company was wearily welcomed by the scrawny man clutching a quill behind his little desk. The office was poorly lit, and an unpleasant scent hung thick in the air of fungus and mould. The witcher’s heavy boots thumped across the thin, wooden floor and the belt buckles securing the sword across his back clicked against the silver buttons of his leather breastplate.

Fluttering thumping of the alderman’s heart filled Geralt’s ears as he approached and crossed heavy arms across his chest.

“Alderman.”

“Sir witcher,” stumbled the man.

“Couldn’t help but notice the posters on the board in town.

“Quite– Quite, yes. Children’ve been stolen, ones that runs around at the nighttime. Yes, quite. . . sad, very sad, quite. I’ve– I’ve made a list of the families. . . would be useful if. . . if. . .”

“Have you a contract, alderman?”

“A contract? A contract, witcher?” Said the man as he pinched the quill between thin fingers. “We’ve not. . . we’ve not the funds for your– your kind. . .”

Golden eyes flickered, not unlike the candles at the windowsill, and the alderman tremored in fear. Geralt beckoned for the list of families whose children had gone missing and took it from shaking hands.

“What is your name?” Growled Geralt.

“Coldo, sir witcher.”

“Coldo, I am not here to rob you. I will finish the job in exchange for anything the people of this town can offer. Velen’s near, should give you some ideas.”

Coldo threw himself from behind his desk with a quick laugh. “Sweet Melitele, witcher. There are not enough words of thanks. I will gather the families, safe travels, safe travels, sir!” He sped, tripped through the office door and ran out into the village centre.

Geralt hummed before thanking the young lady and holding Roach by the reins as he looked to the list of families. He followed cues from salesmen and villagers tending to what little land they had to the first home. A pudgy man, rich in pallor, answered the heavy knock at his door. His pale face fell further as his eyes met with Roach’s, his knees knocked together as they turned to Geralt’s piercing orbs.

“Dorrel family?” Asked the witcher.

“ _Oh_ , lords have mercy, mercy sir witcher, please–!” The man yelled.

“Your daughter, what happened to her?”

Dorrel took a shaky breath and steadied himself against the unreliable wood of his tiny cottage. “Gods, witcher, we haven’t the money to–”

“Alderman’s taking care of that, tell me about your daughter.”

“She. . . I sent her off to collect some water from the well near the graveyard, ‘cross the hill o’er yonder. . . t’was two nights ago now. Haven’t. . . haven’t got word of her since.” A woman yelled from inside the cottage. “My apologies sir witcher, the wife.”

“Not at all.” Geralt turned back onto the road.

///

After the first few families, all with the same stories, the Rivian visited a cottage with a few boys roughhousing in the front yard, the Orgater family. At first sight of the witcher, they all scrambled back into their home.

“Ah. . . yes, witcher. My son had come back with heavy wounds across his back, said he’d felt talons after I’d sent him off for water one eve and ran back home,” said the woman from the next house. “Didn’t believe ‘im ‘till I saw all these missing kids about.” A blonde-haired boy clambered to her hip and she rest her hand atop his head.

“May I see the wound?”

“Of course,” she beckoned the boy at her side. “Show the man your back, Tel.” The boy huffed, looked to the scar at Geralt’s eye and kept back his tears as he turned and lifted the cloth over his torso. Geralt hummed quickly at the raw swipe across the youngster’s flesh, the area around the wound had festered, seemingly burnt. It was clearing quite well for a slash that size, the boy was lucky to be alive. Four scratches had caught him, the hint of a fifth at his lower back. The creature that attacked him must have been humanoid, taloned. A hag.

“He was to collect water from the well near the cemetery, correct?” Asked Geralt.

“Yes, the one up o’er that hill,” she pointed at a mound of dead grass west of her cottage. The boy hurried back indoors.

A grave hag. . . “My thanks.”

“I was a seamstress, you see.” Shouted the woman as Geralt turned his back. “I could fashion you a coat of some kind as payment, I’ve my late husband’s best fabrics beneath the house. Yes?”

“Mhm.” Hummed the witcher and rode off.

///

The night’s breeze was sharp albeit weak, barely ruffled Geralt’s hair while he crouched and watched his plan play out before him. He’d thrown a coin to a young girl on the road and asked her to follow him for the night. The witcher was fully aware of the absurdity bystanders had shown, yet nobody in their right mind would have bothered him.

Geralt had directed the girl to loiter around the gates to the cemetery, draw some attention to herself as the great sun set. She picked at dandelions at the base of the fence separating the living from where they held their dead. The Rivian’s eyes and ears were fixed on his surroundings; the whisper of branches from the hollow oak a few yards yonder, the creaking of unsteady cottages, the murmur of salespeople packing up their rickety kiosks for the night.

It was strange that a grave hag had gotten familiar enough to begin reaching out to the living, it must have become comfortable and undisturbed amongst rotting corpses. Although the rest of Tuathe had stunk, not dissimilarly to rotting corpses, Geralt was weary to add that connection into the grave hag’s decision to unleash her appetite elsewhere.

A low cackle and the scuffle of bare feet against cobblestones drew the witcher’s attention towards a figure doused in shadows as the moon had near completely fallen behind a thick smog that hung over the cemetery, save for a sliver of light peeking over the clouds. Geralt was light on his feet while his cat-eye pupils dilated, and he adjusted to the dark. He dashed towards the hunched figure as it also began to scramble towards the bait.

The grave hag’s piercing shriek matched the girl’s as the witcher reached over his shoulder with his right hand, unsheathing his silver long-sword which shone brilliantly in the moonlight over his head and struck forwards with a growl. At the same time, he reached for the girl and threw her behind him as he swung again at the hag, dodging talons and flicks of a heavy tongue. He listened to the hurried slaps of the girl’s feet against cold stone.

Geralt cast the fire Sign, he’d have to investigate what it was called, and snarled at the pathetic flickering of a flame gushing from his palm to the moist cobblestone. The grave hag squawked with laughter as she spun her rotting body around the witcher, flicking at him with her decrepit tongue and slashing at him with elongated talons and the spines across her shoulders.

The witcher struck a well-timed parry and growled at the clang of the hag’s talons against silver, she screamed and lashed her tongue across Geralt’s gloved wrist, his knuckles, wherever she could reach. He grunted in exertion and twisted his blade, flicking his head to the side before the hag’s tongue could catch him.

With a screech, she jumped back, a yard of space between them. The hag groaned, her drool bubbled, and empty eyes sized the Rivian up before she launched herself forwards. Geralt’s two-handed sword hissed through the heavy air as he swung and missed, before following the trajectory of the silver blade and pirouetting behind the hag.

The full-bodied low strike that followed the pirouette sliced through the rags and flesh of the grave hag’s abdomen, nearly catching the growths at her shoulder blades before she leapt away from the sizzling pain of silver. Geralt growled as he swung once more, _“Kniechelhau_! _”_ shouted a weathered man’s voice in his head. . . a wrist strike, “ _Kurzhau_!” it shouted, Geralt obeyed and shifted his hold on the sword into a short strike.

The witcher spun expertly around the bumbling hag’s body as she hissed and writhed in pain from strike after strike slicing through her thin flesh. “ _Zornhau_!” growled the voice in annoyance, Geralt held back a familiar chuckle as he grunted and thrust the sword through the hag’s chest and pulled up, she dangled from the blade for a brilliant moment before falling through the silver like lard through a hot knife.

The witcher huffed and flexed his fingers around the handle of his sword before sheathing it behind his back with a hiss. Talons had caught across his leather breastplate and dug across his chest. The wound wasn’t deep enough to cause worry, although the discomfort would persist until he healed. Geralt’s ear splitting whistle alerted Roach and she trotted over to his side just in time for the hag’s head to be tied at the mare’s side.

The witcher trekked further into the cemetery in search for the few missing children, he found a few lurking at gravestones and in empty tombs awaiting the hag’s return.

“See that horse over there?” Whispered Geralt.

“Yes sir, yes sir.”

“Stay by her side, I’ll join you soon.”

The rest of the children had been kept in the hag’s cottage yonder at the southernmost side of the graveyard. They held close to each other in little cages, shaking and breathing rapidly through the thick musk of rotted flesh.

Geralt read through the list he had kept with him and smiled briefly to hear that each child was accounted for.

///

“Lords, oh _lords_!” Shuddered Coldo at the sight of the beast’s head suspended from the hair in Geralt’s grip and the cluster of kids trembling in a group beside his mare.

“Apologies, your proof, and the children.”

“Merciful Melitele, my thanks, my thanks, sir witcher! Please, I will deliver the children at once and collect your payment. Return at first light, good sir, grand sir,” Coldo manoeuvred himself awkwardly around the dribbling grave hag’s head and the Rivian’s large frame before shuffling the children out from his office front back into town.

///

Geralt arrived to the alderman’s at first light following a shallow rest at his camp near the border. He collected an array of baked goods, two silver bands, a leather satchel full of feathers from various birds, an assortment of empty vials and the heavy, woollen coat hand sewn by Lady Orgater as promised. He accepted his payment, unconventional as it was, and strapped everything to Roach’s tack before the pair rode off in search of their next adventure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dearg Craag translates to ‘red cliff’ and Tuathe translates to ‘whisper’ in Elder Speech. See you next week!


	4. Prickled Curse

Roach had grown drowsy following the first few days travel out of Tuathe. She’d chew at her bit and nudge at her reins, a good signal for a rest from the path.

Geralt had set up camp with a spring in his step following the recollection of old sword fighting tactics he’d remembered during the battle with the grave hag. He was glad that his memory was being triggered, albeit slowly.

The sweet buns Fenne had gifted him lasted a few days out of Dearg Craag, along with Roach’s apples – which the mare was visibly disappointed about as they depleted - although the breads baked with foreign wheats and grains from Tuathe had been keeping the Rivian on his feet ever since.

As night fell over thick, Cintran woods, the witcher chewed at hard bread and drank cool water. He hummed to himself as the final chunk of wholewheat bread was swallowed. He rearranged his legs and knelt across the thin bedroll.

Shards of rock and chipped stone dug at his knees, quickly ignored, as golden eyes shut and Roach’s braying grew soft enough to disappear completely to the slow throbbing of blood in the witcher’s ears. Geralt meditated.

The voices from not long ago called his name again, clearer now, yet no more recognisable. That gravelly drawl of the voice he'd heard during the grave hag battle repeated the names of longsword moves; “ _Regressive, parry and thrust_!”, “ _Twerhau, pirouette_!”, “ _Mittelhau_!”. The voice must have belonged to a teacher, a mentor of some kind, versed in a witcher’s sword.

With a deep breath, Geralt dug deeper, wading through his psyche. The voices called his name, each blaring for his attention, over and over, all but one; “ _Geralt_?” He would have missed it if it were not the one he’d been searching for. A brooding, honeyed voice, washed with the feeling of unravelling an old parchment and watching its dust flutter and catch slivers of sunlight. This irked the witcher as he trekked for a while through the menagerie where his memories sat.

Geralt let out a heavy breath laden with questions and turned to Roach. Her blank stare and noisy chewing sadly not providing much assistance. The Rivian furrowed his brows, scanned an eye over his camp and snuffed out their fire. He lay on his back and counted the stars before lulling himself into a dreamless sleep.

///

Roach had calmed considerably following the second night of camping, although Geralt was not eager on the idea of staying in one place for too long. The mare had seemingly forgotten about the empty fishing net which had previously held the apples, no longer sniffing at her tack and chewing at her bit. She nosed at Geralt, now donned in his gear, and huffed offendedly.

The witcher frowned and sniffed at himself before nodding his head. Ripe couldn’t even begin to explain how he stank. He decided upon stopping for a bath - at the very least - in the next town over.

The Rivian mounted Roach’s saddle, clicked his tongue and they were off in the direction of the scent of firewood that had sparked nearby not long ago. Cintran nights and mornings were cool in the summertime, no surprise that nearby villages would begin stocking up on wood to burn approaching the time of snow and frost and all other unpleasantries that the winter brought with it.

Roach’s trots were steady across the clean cobblestone near the entrance to the next town; Dearme, a picturesque village nearing the northernmost cities of Cintra. The witcher’s eyes adjusted to the rich reds and golds of the workmen’s cottages framing the border, he watched as smoke carried off into the early morning skies, as the cocks began stirring, ready to wake.

Underhoof, Roach was comfortable, where there weren’t smooth cobblestones there lay thick tufts of lush grass overfull of daisies and dandelions. The mare’s whinnies in Dearme were full of mirth, her eyes taking in the grand colours of the village as it awoke. A dark, valiant steed tapped at the patch of grass before him and watched Roach pass by.

“Pay no mind,” growled Geralt, knocking the heel of his boot at the mare’s side. The pair clopped through the empty town in search of a noticeboard and stable, the Rivian dismounted at the sight of a Cintran mural against the outer wooden wall of a tavern. A heavy slab of coloured cork was hooked there, upon it were pinned a few parchments. Each alerted upcoming festivals and fates, advertisements for Dearmen shoppes and various town council announcements. No contracts.

Geralt hummed before noticing the village start to stir, kiosks began to open, along with the heavy door of the inn. A dwarf hobbled out to swing the wooden sign on the front – _open_ it read – and hook the door to the wall behind.

“ _Ysgarthiad_ ,” hissed the dwarf while failing to catch the latch a few times. She paused for a moment, turned bodily and tilted her head up. Geralt watched her with a curious look in his eye.

“Good morning,” said the witcher.

“Quite. . . come in then.”

“A stable–”

“Just behind, just _behind_ , you know this, witcher,” the dwarf waved her hands above her head and turned back into the tavern, leaving Geralt and Roach scratching their heads. The stable reeked of rotting fruit and fermented beans, although it was bearable as the Rivian got to work untacking his horse. After giving the mare a good talking to about horses – stallions – she should be wary of as he brushed her down, the witcher entered the dwarf’s inn. A fire started not long ago flickered deep into the cosy seating area, few yards before the bar.

Geralt’s eyes followed the natural grain of the logs making up the inner walls, catching every so often on taxidermies of game heads, a deer, a boar, a bear even.

“Come, come,” the voice called from behind the bar, the dwarf adjusted her wired glasses over a bulbous nose and smoothed down the front of her working dress.

“I’m not sure I–” began the witcher as he took a seat at the bar.

“What’ll it be?” She flicked her hands in front of her.

“Pardon?”

“Go ahead, order.” The business tactic was not lost on the witcher who weighed his coins despondently and ordered a toasted loaf with lard for breakfast. He was getting sick of bread following his Tuathe payment, yet it was all he could comfortably afford.

The dwarf hummed knowingly before serving him few slices of pork over a sourdough the kind Geralt had never tasted alongside a tankard of watered milk.

“Thought dwarven women were kept away from humans,” said the Rivian after a while as he ate.

“My husband passed few moons ago, I took o’er the business. . . Yellow, Yellow Gurlan,” she extended a little, pudgy hand and smiled as Geralt shook it.

“Geralt. Condolences for your husband.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Geralt. I will miss him forever,” and a memory sparked at the edge of the witcher’s mind.

“Pleasure’s mine, Yellow. My thanks for breakfast, I must be on my way–”

“Yer in need of a room, right?”

“I’m short of coin, no contracts nearby you’ve heard of?”

“None, some might come up soon, do ask around, check the board. Could offer you a room for some labour.”

“Labour?”

“Y’see, after Beccard died, the large barrels y’must’ve _smelt_ in the stables haven’t been moved. Full of fruit fer our wines. I mourned a while, hadn’t opened up shoppe for a long time. ‘Fter it got worse ‘n’ worse no human’d accept pay to help clear the stables out. I’d be happy t’give you a room in exchange for gettin’ those horrid barrels buried somewhere away from my inn,” said Yellow. Geralt hummed before downing the tankard of milk.

“It's a deal,” he said.

“Good lad, now off you pop, start cleanin’ sometime today ‘fter you find yerself a contract. Alderman’s fifth office to th’right.”

Geralt left the tavern to find a man pasting a new parchment over the board and hurried to check the notice. Someone in search of. . . of fabric for a new skirt, the witcher huffed and turned in the direction of the alderman.

///

Geralt lugged back one of the town guards by the scruff of his gambeson and threw his body to the alderman’s feet.

“Witcher?”

“You were looking for whatever beast had been stealing your daughter’s clothes,” growled the Rivian.

“Yes, quite.”

“Your beast.”

Geralt left, eighty coins richer and with a word of thanks from the town alderman and his family. The trek back to Yellow’s tavern was brief, and the dwarf greeted him with a smile made of sunshine as he arrived.

“How’d it go?” Asked Yellow as she washed up following the afternoon flood of customers.

“The barrels?”

“Yer kind rarely has time for chit-chat, do they Geralt?”

“My kind?”

“We’ll speak later, wolf, get to those barrels, be back fer dinner. I’ve readied the neighbour’s ass and cart to help.”

“Do you have a daughter?”

“No, a son, he’s long gone, disappeared years ‘fore his father passed.”

“Hmm.”

///

The witcher greeted Roach and brushed her down before starting work on the barrels, he’d hauled his possessions to the room Yellow had opened for him and changed into a filthy undershirt for the job. Barrel after barrel toppled into the little ass’ cart and was pulled across to the other side of Dearme where the solid rock toppled into low mountain ranges.

Geralt found himself in the ass’ place after the old thing collapsed in Roach’s pen following their third trip. The population of Dearme – which had apparently all decided to go for their mid-afternoon stroll – watched him carefully. Surprisingly, no words were exchanged, they must have all heard word of the beating he’d gave out to one of the town guard.

News spread like wildfire and before he knew it, contracts were spilling left and right, a woman who’d lost her saucepan, a man whose son’s hound had run away, a farmer who was certain his radishes had been compromised and nabbed during the night.

Geralt hummed as he accepted contract after contract in wonderment of the easy lives these people lived. All the better for him, he supposed. He’d gotten to the farmer’s case as the last of the barrels were tossed into the ravine and asked to examine his crops. Radishes, cabbages and apples were knocked askew and bitten through, laid across the clearing with many missing from their respective plots of land.

“Woke up one night, heard some scuffling and thought to check it out meself. _Horns_ witcher, saw ‘em I did. Blasted shadow scuttered off ‘fore I ran out yellin’ to the high heavens. Pox on it,” said the farmer, nudging his straw hat across his bald head.

“Horns? Did you catch their shape?” Asked Geralt.

“Long ‘n’ skewed they were, thick at the base ‘n’ twisted nearin’ the tip. Clopped all through my carrots,” he sighed.

“Clopped,” hummed the witcher before looking over the field once more. “Right, I’ll be back tonight. Do I have your permission to set a trap on your farm?”

“Be my guest witcher, I’ll pay good coin if ya catch this beast. Two hundred ducats.”

“Make it three and we have a deal.”

“Two fifty an’ I’ll throw in some o’ this season’s yield.”

“Deal.” The pair shook hands and Geralt retreated to Yellow’s inn to prepare.

///

Following a meal of chicken’s broth and fatty pork, the witcher had enough mind to finish his ale and thank the dwarven innkeeper before gathering his supplies and trekking off into the colourful night of Dearme. He’d strapped his silver sword on his back for this contract, though unsure yet completely of the nature of the beast he’d battle.

Geralt’s fingers worked deftly around the thick rope he’d dug from one of his packs. He prepared a spring pole snare, juicy radish being his bait, and patted lush dirt around the trap before sitting back behind the apple tree on the far end of the farm.

The sun set slowly, the witcher’s eyes adjusted speedily and flickered across the plains. His ears and nose tweaked at every sound and scent that disturbed the peace of the farm, that seemed foreign and unsure. Hours passed with nothing but a few rabbits nibbling at the cabbages, scared off by the heavy thud of Geralt’s boot against the mud.

Then he saw it, a horned shadow, yes, scuttling across the far horizon of the land before trotting closer to the witcher’s trap. The wolf unsheathed one sword of silver, nose flaring at the inhuman scent before manoeuvring his body into a low crouch and keeping his weight on the unmoving leg before planting it to the next.

He was as silent as anything while approaching the horned creature, cat-eyes dilating, adjusting to the darkness and locking on their target.

The beast nibbled at the smorgasbord of fruits and vegetation before it, blissfully unaware of its prey’s limbs retracting, ready to pounce. The creature sniffed the air and shifted in the direction of the mound where the trap was set, almost human fingers reached towards the dirt and deftly began to dig in search of the juicy radish awaiting it.

 _Thwack_! The snare snapped and tugged the beast, yowling and howling with a heady radish clasped in its talons into the witcher’s field of view and across the field. With a growl, Geralt sprang into action, and approached the creature, longsword in hands. He cast a bout of the fiery Sign and let small amount of light it generated float in his hand before the horned beast’s face.

“Let me _go_! You _brute_!” It yelled. The witcher paused and studied the creature’s face. A sylvan. He hadn’t encountered one of those since. . . well, since he couldn’t remember. The fact that he even knew what this beast was surprised him. “I said, _let me go_! Son of a _whore_!”

Geralt growled, the sylvan kicked with its cloven hooves and bucked its goat horns against the lush ground beneath it.

“You’ve been stealing this man’s crops, sylvan.”

“This _sylvan_ has a _name_ , you know?” Huffed the creature.

“Let’s hear it.”

“Drigist, white haired pig, my name is Drigist. Had no clue this belonged to anyone, now _let me go_!”

“Quit your kicking, Drigist. I’m Geralt, the witcher sent after your head.”

“Well, Geralt. . . pleasure to meet you, my apologies for calling you names, now _let me go_ you son of an absolute _poxarsed donkey_!” Screamed Drigist as he thrashed and swiped at Geralt’s head. The Rivian made a contemplative sound low in his throat.

“No. Not until we figure out what to do with you. I know that you’re only searching for food and haven’t harmed anyone. That alone is not an excuse to kill you.”

“How interesting, witcher, now let me go and collect your coin. I’ll leave for a week and come back once you’ve left town. How’s that?” The sylvan’s claws began digging into the juicy radish, eyes wide as he watched its tangy liquid trickle down his arm.

Geralt turned and took in his surroundings, eyes locking on the distant shape of the farmer’s hut.

“Sit here.”

“Well I bloody well have _no choice_ , don't I?”

The witcher clicked his tongue and set off in the direction of the farmer’s cottage and with three heavy knocks drew the farmer from his slumber, nearly dragging him from the doorframe and off into the field where Drigist lay writhing.

“Grand work, witcher!” Said the farmer.

“My work isn’t over,” Geralt gestured towards the muttering sylvan, “This is a sylvan, herbivore, practically harmless if unprovoked. He’s caused no harm to anyone and therefore does not deserve death over vegetables.”

“What are ya saying?”

“What I’m saying is that an agreement can easily be made. No bloodshed, and keep your coin.” The farmer turned his eyes from the Rivian’s hazy shadow to watch as the sylvan attempted to reach the radish to his lips with bound hands.

“Sylvan?”

“Sir farmer,” huffed Drigist, furrowing his brows at the old man.

“You’ve been the one diggin’ at me fields and stealin’ me apples?”

“Aye sir farmer, my thanks for the hospitality and my prayers to leave freely this evening.” The sylvan’s free fingers dug into the dirt beneath him, where was this subdued kindness while Geralt was attempting interrogation?

The farmer sighed a heavy breath and scratched at his stubble, then his nose. “Well, how’s ‘bout we _do_ listen to the witcher? Strike up an agreement? Been needin’ hands. . .” he blinked at Drigist, “. . . hoofs ‘n’ all sorts. Y’know how it is, winter's nearin’, even th’people ‘ve started hybernatin’ these days. Been alone on th’ farm. . .”

The sylvan’s dark eyes narrowed as they flicked between the old farmer and the Rivian, who held a tight look of surprise in his brows.

“Go on.”

“Well, you stay ‘ere, ‘elp out on th’farm ‘n’ you c’n reap some rewards. Take yer fill, two meals a day of th’vegies ya grow for yerself,” the farmer’s voice was laden with rest although his face lit up.

“Witcher, let me go,” Drigist spoke slowly as Geralt turned to the farmer who nodded carefully. The sylvan stretched his arms above his head and stood with a hop upon his cloven hooves. “Farmer. . .”

“Sylvan–”

“Drigist.”

“Drigist. Stett,” the farmer outreached one hand and smiled warmly as the sylvan repeated the action.

“Farmer Stett, I would be happy to assist in the upbringing of your farm. Your vegetation has kept me fed for many months and I have become used to the high quality of your crop.”

Geralt held back his disbelief at how civil Drigist had become in a matter of minutes.

“’M glad, son. Good that ol’ Dearme houses non-humans, town guard’d flip their ‘elmets at this,” chuckled Stett before clearing his throat and nodding. “Well, y’can start whenever ya like, I stay out here all hours of th’day.”

The sylvan let a slow smile brighten his face, brows heavy in thought before he nodded quickly and shook the farmer’s hand once again.

“Grand, Farmer Stett, that is grand!”

“Our thanks, witcher,” laughed Stett as the sylvan began munching at his radish. “Who woulda guessed?”

“My thoughts exactly,” rumbled Geralt amusedly before beginning to collect his rope and weapons. The moon sat high amongst the stars as he packed his chattels.

“Do wait up, witcher!” Yelled the farmer, hopping over his strawberry bushels after waving goodbye to his new farm hand. “Yer payment!”

“Keep your coin, Stett.”

“Ya think o’ me as a fool, witcher!?”

Geralt paused his heavy steps. “Not at a–” 

“Then take it, s'only fair!” Stett hobbled towards the Rivian, a clinking leather satchel in one hand and an armful of beets against his chest. “I ain’t gonna be th’one t’deny a witcher his coin, or me name ain’t Stett, an' I don’t own this ‘ere farm!”

Geralt made the trek back towards Yellow’s inn, one heavy arm cradling a healthy number of beets, around the other was wrapped a sturdy old rope and on his back was nestled his silver longsword, mourning the fact it was not used that night.

///

After unloading the peculiar number of beets into Yellow’s kitchen, Geralt kept light on his feet as he retired to the room prepared for him. A large, barrel-shaped bath sat beside a single bed, the scent of an old fire lingered, long dead, within the thick log walls.

The witcher made quick work of his supplies, loading them off into respective bags and satchels before undressing. Geralt eyed the bath and stuck one hand below the surface of the water where he cast the fire Sign. He watched as the water bubbled thickly form the heat spewing from his palm before allowing himself to drop beneath the warmth of the slowly rippling bath.

Geralt let out low hum as warm water enveloped his musky skin, falling into grooves of heavy muscles, he scented a tinge of citrus oil wafting through the air before making a home in his pores. The Rivian washed himself slowly, dragging the clean cloth Yellow had provided across his arms and chest, before submerging his bust and hooking his ankles against the rim of the tub.

A low sigh rumbled from his chest as he sat, content with the day and, more importantly, content with his bath. Yellow had the decency to leave a handheld mirror, along with a straight razor beside the tub, which Geralt made quick use of. He followed the line of his jaw with the blade, watching as it caught against thick skin, dry from the elements, and short, silver strands floated away from him. Freshly shaven and clean haired, the Rivian lay back in his bath and revelled in the remaining morsels of heat leftover before a knock as quick as a hummingbird’s interrupted him.

“Yes?”

“Are y’decent, witcher?” It was Yellow.

“One moment,” called Geralt, hurriedly wiping himself down before sniffing his braies, scowling and throwing a towel around his hips and a spare shirt – which reeked slightly less – over moist skin. He opened the door for the dwarven innkeeper, who huffed after looking him up and down and gestured with the silver tray in her arms. Geralt took hold of the serving tray and followed Yellow as she hobbled to an armchair sat at the tiny round table beside the window before nodding to the witcher.

The pair sat and picked at their food quietly; a light meal of broth, old bread and hard cheese. Geralt was grateful, the meeting with Drigist and Stett had worn him out considerably, he had not eaten much for his dinner that eve.

“I’ll have yer things washed by mornin’,” said Yellow while she popped a few dried fruits into her mouth.

“My thanks.”

“My thanks as well, for th’barrels. Heard Stett’d had you over. . .”

“Yes, a sylvan problem. He sorted it out himself, barely needed my help.”

“That’s ‘im, the ol’ fart. Clever git. Said he was headed to Oxenfurt, went off one Velen, came back and ne’er returned. Took up farmin’. Saw the beets y’left. I’ll thank ‘im in the morn,” Yellow huffed a laugh. “Y’know, witcher?”

“Mm?” Grumbled Geralt around a hefty bite of bread.

“Someone else’d been caught scrounging ‘round ol’ Stett’s farm, ‘fore I took him in, ‘course. Not unlike I took you in.” The Rivian smiled at her for a moment.

“Called ‘imself ‘Duny’, wicked little thing. Urcheon, he said. Nothin’ more. ‘Magine the head of an ‘edgehog, spikes ‘n’ all, an’ the body of a human. That was ol’ Duny.” One of Geralt’s brows lifted in interest. “Not unlike you, saw someone scrambling around the front of my inn. Well my husband, Beccard, Melitele rest ‘im well, saw little Duny first. Brought him in, looked right scared outta ‘is mind. Runnin’ from somethin’. This was back when the ol inn wasn’t floatin’ too well, financially. I’d come back ‘fter pickin’ for mushrooms, saw the new visitor. Didn’t scream, not a tad, greeted the Urcheon like ‘e was any other guest. . . try the fruit, from Stett’s. . . Now Duny had been too ‘fraid of tellin’ Beccard of who ‘e was, what he was doin’ here in Dearme. . .” Yellow paused to drink some broth.

“There are many dense forests around this village, Duny must have come from there,” said Geralt as he sat back in his stool.

“’S’what I thought too. I sent Beccard off for the night, had a sit down with Duny, t’was in this room. Poor thing was frazzled outta his brain, ate up all’o those mushrooms I’d gathered and had room fer puddin’. Starving. Anyways, I’d sat him down on that stool where yer sittin’, told him t’tell me everythin’. The first night, told me ‘is name, the second, his age. He was a young man, can’t remember exactly how old, this was decades ago now,” Yellow smoothed the ruffles of her skirt, the moonlight from the window catching on the creases in the linen. She sighed. “He was clever, I let ‘im stay in the inn. Stayed in this room for a while. Told ‘s to keep quiet when the town guard came in. Ne’er told us who they’d looked fer those few days.”

“Think it was Duny?”

“Must’ve been, he didn’t leave for a few months. . . must’ve been. Anyway, Beccard ‘n’ I took ‘im in. Introduced ‘im around to our friends, people he could trust ‘n’ go to if ol’ Beccard ‘n’ I weren’t ‘ome.”

“You took him in like he was your own. . . why?”

“Wouldn’t know, witcher. He was just a kid, left the inn every night though, took ‘is dinner ‘fore the sun’d set and scurry off into the forests, those dense ones you’d said. Duny’d always be back ‘fore breakfast, just as the sun rose. ‘S’why Beccard’d called ‘im Feainnewedd,” Yellow took in a deep breath and smiled softly, pulling at a loose thread of linen.

“Sun child.”

She smiled softly at the Rivian. “’E was good at tellin’ stories, old Feainne. ‘Bout ol’ kingdoms, monsters ‘n’ things he said he’d read in a past life. A good help, back in th’kitchen. I’d taught ‘im how to cook, kept ‘im a ways from peerin’ eyes. Said he’d travel th’Continent, after Dearme, he’d head further north.”

“You never saw him during nightfall?” Asked Geralt.

“No. . . strange that.”

“Urcheons don’t exist. . . as monsters at least. Feainne must have been cursed. Ran off during the night to turn back into his original form. That way you and Beccard wouldn’t find him out.”

Yellow hummed, “It could be, he’d talked ‘bout those kingdoms ‘n’ monsters like he’d been there, seen it all, learned it. Clever, clever young man. Anyway, he’d up and left, few months ‘fter staying in the tavern. No word, no parchments. He’d gone just ‘fore dinner, the usual, took an extra roll o’ bread. We’d waited until mornin’, sun rose, no Feainne. Sun fell the same day. . . nothin’. We’d sent a search party, Stett sent off his kids, they’d loved young Feainne. Nothin’. We’d scoured the forests, where I’d shown ‘im to look fer mushrooms an’ herbs, veggies. Nothin’. . .”

“Yes?”

“Few years ago. . . well, more than a _few_ , we’d got sent a grand ol’ parchment and a thin, li’l box,” Yellow dug into her dress’ pocket and pulled from it a folded, gold-rimmed parchment alongside a long, nondescript black box, also with gold trims. She placed it on the table and gestured for Geralt to open both.

The witcher reached for the parchment, held in its place by a golden ribbon. The old paper shuffled across his callused hands and he began to read. It was a letter of thanks, a deposit of twenty thousand orens was sent alongside the parchment. The letter wished for Yellow’s and Beccard’s health, and that the coin would reach them well. Impeccably scripted words, although scritched roughly into the thick paper, flowed like poetry, a million thanks for keeping him safe, for letting him stay in their home, for teaching him their trade and where to search for food in the Continent’s dense forests.

He thanked Stett for his tasty vegetables, written that he’d sent a team to fix his hut on the farm, thanked a few of the other salespeople and children of Dearme who had by now long gone on their own paths. He wrote that he would keep the village a haven for humans and non-humans alike, that he would do everything in his power to grant the people of Dearme such lives that they were to ask for nothing, that they would forever be happy and blessed under the light of the sun.

_Signed,_

_Feainne_.

Geralt hummed low in his throat while returning the note, Yellow held the box to him, and he opened it slowly. A single hedgehog’s quill, long and as thick as a woman’s shortest finger at the base, ending at a point sat cushioned by the box it was held in. The witcher huffed through his nose and looked to the dwarf who smiled warmly.

“You remind me of ‘im. Feainne. . . well, Duny, more like. Got so used to callin’ ‘im that, that it even stuck after he left. We sent the money back, couldn’t bear it on our conscience. He must’ve known, never sent any more our way.”

“And you don’t know where he is now, _who_ he is?”

“None the wiser on that front, Geralt. Sometimes I’ll catch meself wond’rin’ ‘bout where he is nowadays. I’m sure he’s still ‘live ‘n’ kickin’. And I know he hasn’t forgotten. . . ‘bout us.”

///

“What are you planning with the inn, now that Beccard’s. . .” asked Geralt, his gloved hands holding tight to Roach’s reins. The stench of rotten fruit had dissipated across the few nights he’d stayed, along with the stench that had sat on his clothes and skin for weeks on end.

“Well. . . one of my good ol’ friend’s opened a non-human settlemen’ few weeks off from Dearme,” she smoothed one small hand against the oaken wall of the inn, “If I ever pack up the ol’ girl, that’s where ol’ Yellow’s gon’ be. ‘Las, hopin’ that won’t have to be for a time.”

“Hm,” smiled Geralt softly to himself.

“And you, Geralt?”

“I’ll continue north, let Roach lead the way for a while. I can’t thank you enough for your hospitality, Yellow. My thanks for your story,”

“Not ‘t all, witcher. Been a while since anyone in this town’d listen for long ‘nuff. Y’seemed like a patient man an’ I’m a talker,” grinned Yellow as she ruffled Roach’s mane. The horse whinnied happily and pressed her nose to the dwarf’s hair with a huff. “The ol _Sailboat_ ’ll be waitin’ for you an’ yer friends if y’ever stop by again.”

 _Sailboat_ , how hadn’t he noticed the name?

“Thank you, Yellow.”

“Hope to see you again someday.”

“And I you.”

And as Roach took up a slow trot, Geralt watched the early morning streets of Dearme begin to wake and caught a glimpse of the far away shadows of a horned, hoofed man wheeling a barrow of radishes behind an old farmer while the sun rose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dearme translates to ‘Dream’, ysgarthiad translates to ‘shit’, Feainnewedd translates to ‘Sun child’ and Feainne translates to ‘Sun’ in Elder Speech. I've gotten a new job so chapters might start coming out a little slower but you'll be sure to see me next week!


	5. Old Knight's Code

Geralt’s eyes adjusted to the light of the campfire following his decision to meditate for a while. He had paid careful attention to the voices calling his name; the seductive prowl of a strong woman, the gruff bark of an older man, the heavy, gravelly laughter of a pair of rascals, the bell-like twinkle of a younger man and the low, melodious sound of question from a man who held an air of strength, even in his mind.

The witcher’s eyes fell shut as he continued his search through the blank spaces filling his brain, the hedgehog’s quill found place somewhere deep in his head. A distant, very distant, memory of young Duny, of a curse and of a strong connection gone unbroken. Geralt hummed as he dug further, pricking himself against the quill Yellow had shown him, then further again. And he heard a soft rumble of mirth, felt thick fabrics settle over his skin and rich blues and turquoises filled his head.

Roach’s braying pulled the Rivian from his meditation, from the comfort he held deep within his memory, deep enough to not have been stolen. With a slow hum, he got to packing his sparse supplies over the mare’s back, making quick work of his camp before setting off northwards, following the tip of Roach’s nose.

The mare had her fill of oats at Yellow’s stables and one night bucked her head in Geralt’s direction as he intercepted one grand stallion in the stable beside her with a carefully positioned rumble. She was as pent up as the witcher was. . . had her memory also been compromised? The Rivian couldn’t say, she seemed normal against his own abnormality, and she must have trusted him enough to carry them through their long journey. That said, she _had_ to have known him prior to his amnesia, Geralt wished he could speak with animals.

Roach’s hooves against the hardened path shuddered to a stop as the witcher scented the air. Brackish water, they were nearing a river of some sort, most probably a few days off at the rate they were travelling.

It was not long before the pair had entered an arid climate, the abrupt shift from lush forests to heavy dunes frazzled Geralt’s senses a moment. He smelt the sweat and grit of a city not far yonder and with his pockets heavy from the several measly contracts in Dearme, Geralt clicked his tongue and nudged Roach further.

///

The city of Attre held itself not unlike the non-human settlement Geralt had run into at the beginning of his travels, although this was, quite glaringly, populated by humans. It was mid-morning as Geralt passed through, he’d thrown the cloak he’d received as payment from Lady Orgater of Tuathe over his white hair and broad frame.

Attre’s cottages and shoppes were crafted in such a way that the city was permanently under attack by heavy winds spewing through from the sea and blockaded by far off mountain ranges. The main road, which Geralt had avoided, saw its population huddled in their winter fabrics with their backs to the strong current of air.

The witcher stopped briefly to purchase a meal to take along with him, the lack of good shrubbery meant all animals lived beneath the ground or further off, few days ride away. Pathetic for hunting.

Roach’s mane flicked at her neck and at the witcher’s fingers as they rode quickly through Attre and onwards to the river.

///

“Downright glorious,” hissed the young hermit as Roach settled onto the raft.

“Hm?” Geralt was preoccupied with the rolling clouds above them, shucking off his cloak to spread it across Roach’s back.

“Downright glorious, I says, pissing all o’er them there rocks. Feelin’ the breeze on yer belly.” The witcher breathed slowly, turned to the hermit, whose young face dropped as quickly as it had risen, and stared him straight in the eyes before looking back to the sky.

The raft landed in the city of Dillingen, an old fishing district which boasted a grand fort overlooking the Yaruga river. Roach was thankful, once again, to be rid of rafts and water for a good time after the pair landed on the shore.

Geralt made quick work of searching for Dillingen’s noticeboard, it had sat at the base of the burg and boasted many a river demon and the sorts which came out at full moons to steal virgins and munch on the flesh of whatever’s left. Dillingen was a sad city, village, rather, the impressive fort, the hermit had told him, was a product of Temerian rule. Infiltrated first by the Nilfgaardians, and Geralt listened.

“Was kidding, by the. . . by the ways, witcher. Apologies,” said the hermit, tagging along behind Roach’s rump and dragging his feet along smooth cobblestones.

“No matter, you live here. . .”

“Svenn, yes, yes, up in those camps,” he pointed over to a few smoking huts yonder on a hill outside the borders of the town. “You, witcher?”

“Not from here,” said Geralt before clicking his tongue as Roach’s head began turning away from the noticeboard.

“The real- uh, the real fuckin’ stuff’s at the camps,” muttered Svenn, hiking his satchel further up his bony shoulder. Geralt was unamused, although the clouds had dissipated and left the sun in their wake. “The notices here, seen plenty witchers get caught up in pointless fuckin’ quests, they’re fake. Made up by the high ups. . . y’know? Try to get ‘em all helpin’ here on fake contracts, meanwhiles we’re the ones dyin’ up o’er yonder.”

“The camps have the real contracts?” Asked Geralt.

“Yes sir, this’s all bullshit, pox on it. Seen a bunch o’ fuckin’ witchers come ‘n’ go over the seasons, ‘came buddies with ‘em just ‘cus they stayed ‘ere so long. Ended up either dyin’ for a quest not even theirs or runnin’ off ‘fter goin’ in circles fer _years_. . . either way, no coin.”

The Rivian hummed slowly. “Show me the camp?”

“Yessir! Ol’ thing’s been plaguing us for moons now, anyone able to help’s caught up with th’fort and its lies.”

Geralt glanced back to the noticeboard, it had looked too good to be true, many of the descriptions showed signs of monsters unnatural to Bruggen terrain, territorial beasts that would never tolerate another of its own or a differing kind in its space.

Svenn adjusted his kirtle and dragged a hand down his face. He was serious, Geralt sensed no lie.

“Alright then, lead the way.” Said the witcher and Svenn pranced blithely before Roach, bowed deeply before the mare and took off for the hill. The witcher held back a huff of amusement before leading Roach into a trot.

///

Worried gazes fell over Svenn and Geralt’s forms, the low hems of kirtles sprayed sand across the few cobblestones remaining as the citizens of the camps scattered away from view.

“Y’remind 'em of Nilfgaardians,” whispered the hermit, looking back at the mare for a moment and grinning at her. “Here w’are, witcher. . .”

“Geralt.”

“Geralt, uh. . . closest we’ve got t’a alderman’s my li’l sister. Good with capitals ‘n’ the rest, you know how ‘tis.” The witcher grunted in reply as he tied Roach to a post nearby the crumbling hut where Svenn had led them. “Ding ding!”

“’Morning broth– Oh. . . good’ness!” The lanky woman pressed a hand to her chest, dark hair falling over her shoulders and eyes darting across Geralt’s face, the scar over his left eye, to the sword behind his back and white hair textured by the salty breeze of the Yaruga. “Svenn?” Her voice was shrill, gaze never leaving the witcher.

“Dearest sister, this’s Geralt!” Said Svenn, extending one arm gracefully, waving it in place around the Rivian’s abdomen with a bow. “The witcher who’ll rid us o’ that griffin yonder, ‘sbeen stealin’ the li’l cattle we’ve left!”

 _Griffin_? Geralt had a fleeting memory of some encounter with one such beast, the image of a mountainous range, of two horses left behind and a crossbow tapered to his back by strong leather belts. A crossbow. Supplies. The witcher had entered Dillingen with his mare and her supplies, his swords, rope and a hook.

“Master Geralt,” said Svenn’s sister, “We are not of much here in the camps, we’ve only a hundred orens stored away for whoever kills the beast. I understand, not much of a prize for a witcher.”

“No mind,” said Geralt, scenting the woman’s fear subsiding in shallow ebbs. “If your people have any materials, wares, to offer on top of the orens I would consider that payment enough.”

“Supplies ya say?” Svenn grinned. “Tell ‘im Ellice!”

“Sir witcher, the camps have made close friends with one sir knight, Siegfried of Denesle. He’s got the supplies you’d need for your plight,” Ellice nodded and packed the few odds and ends of her desk into the knitted straw satchel over her shoulder. “Come,” she beckoned, and the pair followed her across the border to the camps and into inner Dillingen.

///

Dressed in a crimson gambeson with a heavy breastplate of solid brass stood an older man with grey wisps of hair faded from the gold at the roots. He was leaning on a rickety longsword; its tip buried a few fingers into the soil and spoke with a madam of around his age.

The madam swung a wooden spoon animatedly over his head and blushed at his lilting chuckles. The man sighed following a bright chortle and turned his head to the breeze. His eyes quickly passed over Ellice and the men behind her before snapping back faster than Geralt could draw his sword.

“Geralt? Of Rivia, no less!” Laughed the man, pressing a brief apology to the woman’s cheek in the form of a kiss before tugging his sword from the soil and hurrying to the group. “Oh lords, could it be? It’s me, Geralt, Siegfried of Denesle, of the Order. Remember your journey to Temeria all of those springs ago?”

“You know Siegfried?” Asked Svenn, watching the witcher’s brows furrow as they neared the woman’s kiosk.

“Siegfried, from Temeria,” rumbled Geralt slowly, racking his brain for any morsels of information it could provide. The knight’s face fell noticeably while he floundered around with his sword he had holstered at his hip.

“No matter, it has been a while,” Siegfried pat one gloved hand over the Rivian’s shoulder, before stepping back. He seemed unconvinced. “Ellice, Svenn, good to see you both. What can I help you with?”

“Sir Siegfried, have you any memory of the griffin terrorising what little stock we’ve over the hill?” Asked Ellice, knotting her fingers through the braids of her satchel.

“Of course, dear. And of course, I would assist, yet a griffin being what it is is beyond my power. . . would have been even if I was as young as I was when I first met Geralt.”

“We’ve pandered th’ witcher for his help. All’s we need’s supplies,” said Svenn. “You were th’first we thought’o goin’ to.”

“I’m quite happy to help, although. . .” he turned to face the Rivian once more, “May I join you in defeating the griffin? I will of course be of no nuisance, just like the good old times.”

Geralt tracked the man’s features for a long, painful moment before he hummed in agreement, slightly apprehensive around the harmless old knight. His mind urged that Siegfried was of no danger to the witcher, and that he was telling the full truth. Much like Nivellen, another face in his past who could provide more stories of who Geralt was before the amnesia, might open some doors to his old life and how to return.

The witcher inclined his chin and Siegfried grinned brightly, looking between the group before him and turning to the lady of the kiosk.

“Come, dearest, let us greet my old friend within the warmth of our cottage.”

///

Siegfried ushered the group deeper into Dillingen proper, it seemed a lonely town, must have buzzed when trade was rife, and sailors would rush in and out of their grand ships to the embraces of warm bosoms and the promises of bone broth and the like. The Rivian huffed through his nose; no place for a witcher.

The many corridors of Dillingen led them to a dainty cottage, cladded a deep blue with a foreign coat of arms embossed in wood hanging beside the door. The old knight waved nonchalantly at the grand oak tree at the roadside before his front garden as Ellice watched carefully and Svenn nodded before they shuffled inside, Geralt’s hulking form barely slotting through the doorframe.

Siegfried’s wife hurried in her plight to prepare the perfect pot of tea and left the hermits, knight and witcher to their own devices in the home. Thick leather boots clacked and worn canvas slippers skidded across the carefully maintained floor of the cottage before Siegfried reached for the handles of an impressive mahogany dresser which, when opened, outlay the knight’s old weaponry and supplies he’d gathered himself over the years serving in the Order.

“Here we are,” said he, a proud, faraway gaze brightening the aged grooves and divots of his features. Svenn let out an impressed noise, Ellice and the witcher made none. “Geralt?” Siegfried looked over his shoulder, gesturing to the array of supplies.

Geralt picked at the various traps, knives and swords. And a crossbow, old thing, the wood seemed crafted of a strong oak and stained to match the colour of dark leather.

“May I?” Asked the witcher, nodding towards the weapon. Siegfried’s eyes gleamed as he ushered the Rivian forwards. Svenn and Ellice stood on their toes to watch over Geralt and the knight’s shoulders while they admired the crossbow.

“I’ve seen you in action with one of these a long while ago,” the knight kept his voice low as to not bring an abrupt end to the witcher’s examination of the weapon. “Quite the collection of arrows myself, as well.”

“You sure I can use this? Looks expensive.”

“Old friend,” Siegfried’s hand landed on Geralt’s shoulder, “You may use any of these weapons, I’ve certainly got no use for them. My knightly days are long over – as much as I wish to believe they are not. I’d be honoured if you, good witcher and dear friend, would slay many a beast with items of my arsenal.”

The Rivian hummed in acknowledgement while weighing a few more pieces of the knight’s collection in his hands. “I’ll have to locate its nest and study the area, could be more than one,” he said, startling the hermits as he turned on his heels with the supplies required and took to leave the cottage with Siegfried on his heels.

“My wife’s made tea, Geralt. Stay awhile,” bartered the knight, gloved hands outreaching at his sides.

“Yeah, witcher, griffin ain’t been terrorisin’ at all today, nor yest’rday, nor th’day ‘fore!” said Svenn.

“I’ll be off at the camps to get your payment ready,” Ellice nodded towards the knight and her brother, “Get your energy up, sir witcher,” she smiled, curtsied and left as Siegfried’s madam poked her head from the kitchen.

“Needin’ some ‘elp Madam Silya?” Called Svenn.

“’T’would be grand, dear!” Her voice was faint as it weaved through the home, interrupted by the young hermit’s hurried steps.

The old knight cleared his throat, “Let us speak, it seems as though we have many a topic for conversation.”

“Let’s.” The pair took a seat in the dining room, each stretching worn muscles – worn for different reasons – in their respective chairs. Siegfried kept rigid, not peculiar with the years under the sun he’d served of his knighthood following a torturous form of discipline, Geralt was unparalleled in his understanding.

Although he believed that his discipline was bred of another sort, one of survival and grit over the lavish romance of town guards and knights with their bright gambesons and clean-shaven faces.

Madam Silya placed her most prized saucers and teapot carefully over the intricate doily which covered the quaint dining table, the teacups clattered but a moment and brought the witcher back to the present. Svenn was quick to lay out a selection of rich fruit loaves and sweet biscuits, hurriedly grabbing one while the old madam wasn’t looking.

“A mixture of apples and cherries,” began Siegfried, scratching at his hairless chin, “My wife has spent many moons working on brewing the perfect cup.” His eyes were warm as he thanked the lady and watched her scurry further into their home with Svenn hot on her heels balancing their own afternoon meals. “Now. . . tell me, Geralt. You truly have no memory of our first meeting in Temeria?” Said the knight after a long moment.

The witcher shook his head. “No memory of the first, nor the second, nor third. Haven’t remembered anything prior these last few months.”

“Lords above,” the knight placed his teacup back on its saucer with a clatter, “I. . . who would have done this, old friend?”

“Beats me, Siegfried. Who or what. . . tell me then, when did we meet?”

“Sit back then, old friend. Be thankful that this is my favourite story to tell,” grinned the knight, taking a quick sip of the fruity tea before clearing his throat. Geralt sat back in the lacquered wooden chair, thick boots crossing at the ankle paired with the soothing clicking of buckles and shuffle of leather.

“1270 it was, Vizima proper– have you been since your current bout of amnesia?”

“Vizima? Can’t say I have.”

“Well. . . long ago was it now, I escaped not many a moon following our first meeting. You were on the hunt, a contract from. . . well, now I too cannot seem to remember, old friend. Must have been one of the town guard, you were captured and kept in a Temerian cell, let out on the grounds that you would complete a contract down in the sewers. . . more tea?”

“Hm.” Geralt watched as Siegfried poured. “I was captured?”

“Quite, came willingly to your cell. I was a knight of the Order of the Flaming Rose, beat you to the beast in the sewers by a few minutes. A cockatrice. I will admit to you now, old friend, as I could not back then; the fear running through my veins the moment I saw you bounding through the sewerage muck has kept my adrenaline fuelled proper ever since,” the pair chuckled. “A witcher, I couldn’t imagine,” huffed the knight before sipping his tea and humming to himself. “Anyways, we agreed to defeat the cockatrice together, I with my iron sword and you with your silver. Blades swinging, we conquered the sewer beast. When I tell you that I was beyond impressed, do believe me, never had I experienced such a level of precision, grace, power.”

Geralt grunted in acknowledgement and reached for his tea mug. “My thanks.”

Siegfried chortled, “You say as if you are unaware, old friend! No mind, I’ll continue if it’s all the same to you.”

“Go ahead.”

“Our paths met quite a few more times following the cockatrice battle in the sewers, I was even required by you to fend off another foe. . . alas, I am not the one to ask about that version of your expansive history. You’d also suffered a bout of amnesia few months before Temeria. You quickly found your feet then; this seems quite extensive in comparison.”

“Hm?”

“Well, you were on the search for the Salamandra, a gang led by one Azar Javed. Name ring any bells?”

“None.”

“Javed was a sorcerer, a tyrant. He and his buffoons looted some sort of information and you were put on the case. At least, that’s what I gathered. It’s been decades, old friend, many of these things – although riveting – have failed the test of time for me. Be sure not to quote me on what you’ve heard, as certain as I may be. Anyways, you slayed Javed and his hoard, Salamandra disappeared off the face of the Continent as quickly as it had arrived.”

“Interesting,” the witcher mapped this new information out in his mind, he’d lost his memory at least once before, he made good friends across the Continent, meaning enemies as well. The Salamandra intrigued him, although long disbanded, how had the Rivian managed to singlehandedly take down such a powerful organisation?

“You are puzzled, my apologies. Of all the stories I can provide, each will end in another I’m afraid. And alas, many of these other stories are not mine to tell. . . try the fruit loaf. I am certain that your old friends will provide much clearer answers than I am able,” smiled the knight and brushed some biscuit crumbs from his fingers.

“My thanks, Siegfried. Only a few have claimed to know me from the past. I am having a difficult time understanding how long I’ve been. . .”

“Gone?”

“Hm.”

“Well. . .” the fruit loaf was very rich, “I stayed in contact with you for a little under a decade following our final grand battle, it’s been over thirty summers I think, maybe even forty, since I’ve seen you last. Not much help. . . although I couldn’t miss you from eighty yards away, you’ve barely changed at all; I’ve grown old as we humans are dreaded to. Sometimes I find myself wondering how we’ve become the most well-regarded race if we dwarf the rest in age.” Siegfried sighed and finished his cup of tea with a few quick gulps.

Between thirty and forty winters, Geralt had been. . . how old _was_ he? The tea went down like sand in the final dregs, rich, fruity crumbs had formed into tiny razors tearing through the membrane of his oesophagus. Was he missing? Was there someone looking for him? Hard to say, no missing witcher posters had been plastered in Skellige, nor in Cintra or Brugge.

Geralt scoffed to himself; a missing witcher poster. “We’d better set a lure then, for the griffin. Yes?” Siegfried patted his knees and almost bounced from his chair. “We’ll be out for a while, plenty of time to chat.”

“Mhm,” the pair grabbed their fair share of weapons and supplies for the lure, thanked Madam Silya and joined a still chewing Svenn on the brief trek to the camps on the hill.

///

“Mutant scum,” hissed a nearby hermit, gathering the rags around his feet as he scurried along the road.

“Good Fevyr!” The annoyance in Siegfried’s voice was laced with practiced kindness. “I do ask that you respect guests of Dillingen, in whichever forms they may come. _You_ have been accepted, have you not?”

“My ‘pologies, good knight,” grumbled the hermit, eyes flicking between the three men.

“Fevyr, we’re in search of Colvir, the keeper of stock here in the camps. Have you seen her recently?”

“Quite ‘ave, sir knight. Seen ‘er. . . A shellin’d help an old man remember. . .” Geralt’s gaze sharpened under the harsh light of the afternoon sun, Fevyr’s fingers trembled around his rags, “Just a copper th’n. . .” He caught the coin Siegfried flicked to him and cleared his throat with a wretched cough. “Colvir’s up yond’r with Skarla at ‘er hut.”

“Our thanks, Fevyr, do greet the wife for me,” the group continued, following Svenn up towards the hut.

///

“And I told her, there’s no way in th’pits o’ _hell_ that _I’ll_ tell ‘em–” Geralt’s heavy footsteps drew the ladies’ conversation to an abrupt stop, one lanky woman screeched horribly while the other huffed and rolled her eyes.

“Be back in a moment, Skarla,” said the shorter woman. “What can I do ya for, sir knight, witcher? ‘Fternoon Svenn.”

“’Fternoon Colvir,” grinned the young hermit.

“Sorry to disturb,” said Geralt, eyes flicking to Skarla, who had quickly fled from the back exit of the decrepit hut, “I’ve been hired to kill the beast terrorising your stock. We’ve come to ask you for any information which could help identify the griffin.”

“Ah, grand!” Colvir nodded slowly, she cleared her throat and beckoned out of the doorway, “Follow me then, last attack was last week.” The group followed the thin, elderly woman back to the main path, her kirtle and worn leather turnshoes kicked up dust and sand as she shuffled to the plains nearing the far border of Dillingen.

They reached the rotted wood of the gate to Colvir’s farm, Svenn winced at the clanging of rusted chains as the woman unlocked the gates and nudged them wide open. “Come in, come in.”

“You said there was an attack last week, during the day?” Asked Geralt, scanning the fields, barren save for the odd skinny cow and sheep. 

“’Twas, husband ‘n’ I had to sit back in my hut ‘n’ watch it drag off ol’ Enni. Last good dairy cow. . . haven’t had proper milk ‘r cheese to sell,” sighed Colvir, her old features gone soft as she stared forlornly at her grazing animals. “Least the chickens’re too small fer it t’eat.” The griffin had gotten comfortable enough to hunt there during the day, most probably defended the territory of Colvir’s farm far off now and for many nights.

“Were there any remains left over of Enni?” The group trekked further onto the farm.

“None. Though, heard ‘er mooin’ from far off, ol’ thing, big pair o’ lungs. Saw the winged beast flyin’ off northeast as if t’ Maribor proper, takin’ Enni with it.”

Northeast. . . Geralt would have to follow the paths quite a while to find good territory for a griffin’s nest. The barren land of Brugge seemingly held no structures grand nor high enough for the winged beast. . . curious.

“Has it always been the same griffin, you haven’t noticed any new markings during the visits?”

“Not th’t I’ve paid any ‘ttention to the beast. . . though, big black ring o’ feathers round it’s neck, that’s th’only one that comes.”

“Our thanks,” said Geralt, catching Siegfried watching him with a fond look on his face. “The plan is to lure the griffin from its nest, for this I’ll need your most recent animal hide as bait.”

“Well, good for you, had t’ cull one o’ my sheep not too long ago, still got th’ wool on ‘n’ everythin’. Would prefer if you’d return ‘t ‘fter yer done with it.”

“Of course.”

“Thank you Covir.”

“No matter, Sir Siegfried, witcher,” the farmer offloaded the stinking sheep’s hide and shooed off the group with few flicks of her bony hands and watched as the witcher, the knight and the hermit took off on the roadside.

///

Under the dark velvet cover of the night, Geralt and Siegfried set off on their respective horses, the breeze had gotten sharper. Roach whinnied, her eyes unable to adjust to the quickly disappearing light of the moon, however, the mare’s trust in Geralt was unmatched and he was sure to lead her quickly and carefully through the dark. The knight’s stallion, thinner and older than that of most knights, followed suit.

“How many times did our paths cross, Siegfried?” Asked the witcher, slowing down his mare to a quick trot.

“Well, can’t remember many of those events after how long it’s been,” the knight looked down to his horse, “Hark, age has not been good to me as it has to you, witcher.” He smiled as he heard Geralt huff in amusement in front of him. “Following the death of Grand Master Jacques de Aldersberg, we’d lost our ground as an Order in our places at Temeria and Aedirn. I was appointed Jacques’ position by the Supreme Council by which King Radovid of Redania assigned us as special forces for his kingdom. We continued to battle with beasts, of course. Although, men outweighed the monsters we were tasked to eliminate.”

“Interesting.”

“As we had planted roots in Redania, our services were required for a peace summit at Loc Muinne to which you’d hurried with another man following rumours. . .” Siegfried’s voice dwindled.

“What rumours, which man?” Asked Geralt, halting Roach’s trot.

“T’was one of the more recent times we’d met, I. . . I believe that some information is better learnt with a fresher mind. You deserve the whole story which I’ve not been built to provide, at least not in these later years,” said Siegfried into the night.

“Siegfried–” Geralt began.

“My apologies, old friend. . . this is difficult for me and you require more information, this I understand and therefore will not divulge. I digress, we’d settled on land near Roggeveen, granted by Radovid where we erected a grand fortress, Castle Barienmurg, largest in the north. . .”

“It is still standing?” The pair sat on their horses, side by side, watching each other cautiously. The old knight turned away and furrowed his brows, barely visible in the scarce light of the waning moon behind them.

“No, but that is also a story for another day.”

Before he could further react, the witcher drew Roach to an abrupt stop, cat-eyes flicking between the sparse bushels and nose sniffing at the thin air of where the pair had ventured. They neared a cliff, which fell few hundred yards to a rocky shore where a great pond had settled an age ago.

“What do you think?” Whispered Siegfried, the silence following the thundering of their horse’s hooves had made him uncomfortable. “Is it settled in the cliff face?” He looked over the ravine warily.

“Yes,” grunted Geralt while scenting the air, “There’s more than one.” The knight blew out a quick breath, patting his stallion’s mane down as the horse shimmied side to side while waiting.

“What do you propose, Geralt?”

“I’ll go down there and check for eggs. The only reason two griffins would share territory's if they’re mated.”

“The male must have been the one stealing Covir’s cattle.”

“Mhm. Stay here.”

“You’re sure?” Siegfried’s mouth snapped shut as Geralt shot him a look. “Yes, go ahead sir witcher, do not let me keep you.”

With a brief nod, the Rivian dismounted his horse, dug around her saddlebags and popped the cork to one of his few remaining potion bottles. He paused. . . sniffed at the opening of the little glass neck. . . disregarding Siegfried who cleared his throat, Geralt hummed, hands dug back into the saddlebag and pulled out a multitude of little bottles of various shapes and liquids of various colours contained within. The witcher blinked at the vials and racked his mind for any morsel of information on why his first instinct was to reach for these foreign potions and why he had no recollection of ever ingesting anything of the sort.

He sniffed once more at the emerald liquid in the first bottle, brows furrowing as he decided to trust his instincts this time. Geralt’s lips closed around the little rim of the bottle and he swallowed the heady mouthful of herbal-tasting liquid. Siegfried watched with unabashed interest, before nodding at the witcher who began his descent.

The Rivian closed his eyes before holding up one gloved hand at the knight while his breathing began rasping deeply and tensely. He blinked and furrowed his brows against the aggravating tug of the muscle radial to his pupils, his cat eyes dilated to their fullest extent and swallowed the sickly whites of his sclerae. The blanket of stars above the pair shone as bright as the sun and the inky precipice below the rocky drop unveiled itself to an almost shining pond from beneath the cover of pitch black.

Geralt grunted as he leapt towards a jagged ledge, scaling the cliff face diagonally scanning the rocky face with practiced speed and precision, he dove from landing to landing with unmatched stealth before the toe of his boot hit thin air. The gaping hole of a cave on the cliffside stood proudly near the top, Geralt scented the air. The beasts within had long fallen asleep; deep, long breaths huffed every few moments.

The Rivian counted down in his head before reaching to the jutting rocks between his legs which formed into the ceiling of the cave, pushing his feet against the stone beside his gripping hands. Powerful legs thrust his lower half from the cliff wall, and, with adept ease, heavy arms supported the propulsion of his body through thin air before he released the cave’s rocky edge and tucked into a flip. Geralt landed silently and his eyes adjusted quickly to the imposing darkness where a much more imposing sight met him.

///

“Eggs?” Siegfried held back a scowl as his gloved hands tightened against the reins of the pair’s horses.

“Male and female, judging by Covir’s description the male has been killing her stock and bringing it back.”

“As we expected. What do you propose?”

“Lure the male out for a hunt using Covir’s sheep hide far from the cave,” Geralt began, mounting his horse and clicking her back into the darkness, his incredibly enhanced eyesight guaranteed a safe journey back into Dillingen. “I’ll make use of that crossbow belonging to you, then slay the female and her eggs.”

“We shall battle them together, old friend,” nodded Siegfried, keeping his old stallion steady and averting his gaze at the look Geralt sent him from over his shoulder.

“ _I_ will deal with the griffins; you may keep watch.”

“Watch for what, pray tell?”

“Eggs,” grunted the Rivian after a while of hooves pattering on dry soil and frowned at the scoff from the knight.

///

“Do rest, Geralt, do rest,” Madam Silya held the brunt of Geralt’s damaged armour in her arms and regarded him with a careful expression which furrowed the deep wrinkles at the corners of her eyes carved from a lifetime of laughter. She had quite the fright when the witcher slumped against their doorframe, pale as chalk with blackened eyes.

“Silya’s prepared you a bath, old friend. The healer will be with us shortly, has to come from the town yonder,” said Siegfried over his wife’s shoulder in the hallway.

“Don’t need a healer,” grunted the witcher, grimacing as he peeled back his tattered gambeson and undershirt to reveal a deep, bloody gash spanning from his right shoulder to beneath his left ribcage. “Send them back.”

“Oh lords,” whispered Madam Silya, her face blanching at the gore across Geralt’s bust.

“Hand me my thinnest satchel,” the Rivian gestured, allowing Siegfried to assist him into a wooden stool in the bathing quarter of the cottage. The old knight’s wife rifled through the amalgamation of leathers dropped at the entrance of the home.

Vials of coloured liquids clinked at the intrusion of Geralt’s gloved hand, scent alone had worked for the potion which had allowed him to see in the darkness and he therefore expected whatever powers be to provide one in the form of an antiseptic. His wound held on the brink of hissing as his body healed. The witcher sniffed at a few glass bottles before tossing back half of a golden, liquor-tasting fluid and pouring the second half over the gash.

Geralt’s flesh sputtered at first contact of the potion, the hot blood within his body began to fizzle as his system gained strength and the healing doubled in speed. Lucky guess then.

Madam Silya scurried off in her plight to assess the damage of the witcher’s armour while Siegfried watched on with wide eyes as the marred flesh pieced itself back together from the deepest point.

“May I bathe?” The Rivian grunted as the old knight assisted him from the stool to the edge of the tub where the water had gone tepid after a night of waiting.

“Will you be alright on your own, old friend?”

“Yes, my thanks,” Geralt watched the knight retreat until the door clicked shut behind him and the witcher was alone.

With a long sigh, Geralt stripped himself of his remaining garments, boots, belt, codpiece, trousers and braies, before casting the fire Sign to the water of the tiny tub. The clicking of buckles and hard leather against the worn wood of the knight’s bathing room floor echoed long after Geralt sat himself in the bath. He revelled in the scorching heat which percolated through each mutation-supported membrane and into long aching muscle where it soothed, even for a moment, the dull throbs racking his body.

The witcher leaned back, thankful for the towel on the rim behind his neck and watched the light of the pair of candles in the room flicker and fight across the high ceiling in silence. His breaths became slower as the gash across his bust throbbed while meeting the sloshing heat of the water.

Geralt’s eyes drooped as he nestled deeper into the tub ‘til his knees jutted rudely from the water’s surface, along with what remained of his head above his cupid’s bow. He blew heavy breaths from his nose, watching the liquid ripple around his lips and studied the wave packet curiously. His pendant, sat squarely on his chest, morphed and distorted beneath the darkening water. Geralt hummed beneath the surface before letting his head roll back, drenching his hair and scalp.

Madam Silya had left an array of cleansing oils and scrubs beside the bath, which Geralt sniffed through one by one until picking a discreet, summery hair oil which did not offend his sensitive nose. It was scented with clementine rinds.

Following his bath, Geralt dried himself off, scowling as his apology to Madam Silya’s spirit when the bright towels stained crimson from his gash. His body hummed and transuded raw heat while he pulled on his dirty clothes.

Siegfried entered after a brief knock. “Do you require anything, Geralt?”

“Has your wife any needle and string? Any gauze?” Asked Geralt, to which the old knight nodded and delivered on the Rivian’s request. Siegfried stood back to watch the witcher at work on stitching the superficial layers of his skin before wrapping the thick linen across his chest and over his shoulder where the flesh twisted hotly.

“My wife will mend your clothes and wash them, and we will dispatch your armour to the local armourer come morning. No needle of ours is strong enough for a witcher’s leather,” the knight chuckled humourlessly. “I should have helped.”

“You should have done no such thing. Do not worry yourself.”

The knight’s brows furrowed before relaxing, “Shall the griffin’s heads stay with Roach ‘til morning?”

“I will drop ‘em to Svenn, he made sure I knew he’d be awake awaiting my return. Good kid.”

“He is. A strapping young man who deserves much more than Dillingen can offer. His sister as well,” smiled Siegfried, the deep grooves of his wrinkles enhanced by the strong shadows cast from candlelight. Geralt hummed. “I will dispatch the heads and bring your payment back.”

“There’s no need–”

“Let me, Geralt,” he pleaded, warm eyes tracking the witcher’s expression.

“Go ahead.”

“You rest up then, old friend, we’ve a spare room near the entrance. Silya will lead you.”

///

Geralt awoke the next morning with the rising sun and was greeted with an oblong package sat upon his armour, thickly wrapped in sheep skins beside the crossbow he had used for the griffin contract. Upon the package sat a note from Colvir, written in neat scrawl on thin paper, who thanked the witcher and apologised that she could not provide a monetary payment. Colvir continued, explaining that she and her husband – a long retired girdler – decided upon a leather scabbard for consolation, made from the sheep’s hide the witcher had used as bait.

Geralt’s silver sword, which he’d brought along to the cliffside, was sheathed in the simple leather with initials of the sparse number of hermits who lived in the Dillingen camps embossed on the scabbard’s length as the only decoration. _SSE_ : Siegfried, Svenn and Ellice, framed the thicker leather where his sword’s handle jutted.

The witcher smiled softly to himself and was sure to thank the farmer and her husband for the lovely gift following breakfast.

///

Siegfried held him close for a moment before Geralt mounted Roach and the pair continued on their travels, the knight’s arms were weaker and his frame lighter although he seemed quite content with himself, his wife and his place in the village of Brugge.

And as Roach began clopping along the path, Siegfried jogged along those few yards to the outskirts of town before they exchanged bright grins and Geralt’s old friend, the knight, became a speck in the barren lands behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Purely a Siegfried appreciation chapter. I wish we had more time with him in the games. We have four more pre-written chapters left before we fall into the true WIP category. Until next week!


	6. Heady Apple

“Oh, you glorious savage,” a woman’s voice tinkled, her touch featherlight on the skin of Geralt’s shoulder. The witcher’s eyes crinkled as he murmured something rather unintelligible at whoever was bothering his slumber. The call of a cock roused the witcher further from the old, matted furs he had spent his night rolling on.

“Yes?”

“‘Come morning, I depart. Contracts and the rest,’” the woman imitated Geralt’s grumbling tone. “It is morning, witcher,” she smiled brightly against the musk of the room while the Rivian shuffled one heavy arm across his bare chest in a languid stretch. “Geralt?”

“Good morning,” he huffed, greeted by a halo of shocking red hair beside him. The pair disentangled and coin exchanged hands although they lay still for a moment. Geralt had hunted for hours to find a cheap prostitute among the courtesans of Dorian, his current bedmate had launched herself at him at first glance while he ambled across the city, Roach in tow.

“You’re a witcher?” The young lady reached a hand for Geralt’s pendant, before stopping short and tucking it below the covers.

“Is it that obvious?”

The redhead shrilled a laugh which forced the Rivian’s eyes closed once more. “Never met one of you ‘fore. . . what’s it like?” Her turquoise gaze sparkled in the sparse light of the sun; she must have chosen a room facing west.

“What’s what like?” The witcher grunted, folding his fingers back at the nape of his neck.

“Well, witcher-ing. . . of course.”

“Ah, well, monsters and money.”

“Nothing _lavish_ I suppose?”

“Nothing lavish.”

“And you’re happy with it?”

“Wouldn’t say happy,” Geralt shifted, furrowing his brows at the moistness traversing across under one thigh. The furs felt as good as they scented, which was not very good at all.

“No?”

“No.”

“Well. I’m Dreana,” said Dreana.

“Mhm,” said Geralt. “Pleasure.”

“Pleasure’s mine, sir _paying_ witcher sir. And I am quite happy with _my_ current predicament. Want to know why, Geralt?”

“Humour me,” the Rivian tilted his chin towards the girl, the ghost of mirth playing across his face.

“ _Well_ , I’ve had the honour of bedding my first witcher who, by the way, was quite the character. Much more interesting than others who’ve stumbled into my path, might I add. Quite a few touches more handsome than most some men and women.”

“Women?” Asked Geralt, Dreana had shuffled so that she sat against the makeshift headboard of the bed, her naked upper body on show.

“Women,” she grinned, toothily, running a hand through short, unruly strands.

“That I’d like to see.”

“I’m sure you would. Though, not many have come in search of me before.”

“Tell me more.”

Dreana’s quicksilver smile shot down to the witcher, their shining eyes met with an unspoken agreement, “You’ll owe me.”

“That’s usually how it goes,” Geralt rearranged himself so that he was tilted to the side, one arm holding up his head.

“Maybe some other time, witcher. For now. . .” Dreana extended a slender hand in which her new satchel of coins fit nicely. “Let us break fast.”

///

Over time, Dorian and few tinier surrounding villages had become a refuge for sex workers and their patrons, Geralt had stumbled upon the city following days of travel towards Gors Vellen through Temeria. Svenn had nudged him few nights before his departure and hinted at one of his own old friends who resided in Dorian and was employed as a courtesan.

Lo and behold, Roach’s nose led the pair in the direction of Dorian, veering away from the path towards Maribor proper. Murmurs of a beast at the borders of Brokilon weaved their way to the witcher and so was the trail decided for them.

Siegfried’s wife made good on her promise of delivering his brigandine, patched and prim come morning following the battle with the griffins and the knight’s battle with rolling eggs. The thick leather armour clung near to his fuller form while he rode, his meetings with old friends and new – and their heady, homecooked meals – had revived heavy muscles following their apparent hiatus before amnesia struck.

The air had become thicker on his venture further into Temeria and the grounds denser with foliage and forest lands. Geralt allowed himself spots of merriment on his travels, stopping every few nights for a quick ale and a listen to the travelling bards. Few of which had caught his interest, thankfully not one had taken any interest in him.

Dreana had been close friends with Svenn, she’d explained, the pair had travelled for a short time together while following the rocky shore of the Yaruga. Geralt had paid her a pretty penny for her service and frowned at the next mention of his name before leaving the tavern within which they’d first met.

“Let me join you!” She said, following their meagre meal bought with the redhead’s own coin back in the rented room.

“Join me?”

“Quite!” Dreana pulled her chemise across freckled shoulders, “Since Svenn’s an’ I’s meeting I’ve been yearning for adventure, witcher!” Her short, fiery red hair stuck out from all angles as she pulled her tunic over her head and arranged her belts and rings of silver. “Let me tag along!”

“No.” Geralt said. The witcher turned on his heels with an air of finality, headed in the direction of Roach’s stable.

“Geralt,” Dreana’s voice was trill.

“No.”

“Come _on_ , just for the day, I’ll be home by sundown. Let me accompany!” Her age truly showed through the heavy layers of kohl and rouge, Dreana was young, mid-twenties. The spring in her step, bright tunics and heavy belts were all Geralt had to see to notice her true calling in life was far away from Dorian and even further from sex work.

“Go home, Dreana. As much as you believe it to be, this is not the life for you.”

“Quit it with the limericks, savage. Just this once, I’ll ask for nothing more,” she stood quite a ways shorter than the towering witcher, slim but strong-willed with her hands on her hips.

“Come along then,” said Geralt after a moment and felt his gaze soften as she grinned up at him.

///

The witcher and his most recent – _temporary_ – companion had joined Roach at her stable and took off for the town noticeboard. A few mentions of the Beast of Brokilon feathered around the worn cork and thin paper. All signs pointed to the trek further into Gors Vellen proper, where the riches were of a chunk more than Dorian and its inhabitants, that would be where Geralt would undertake the Brokilon contract.

Yet, if the brief descriptions on the few parchments on Dorian’s noticeboard of the beast were anything to go by, this hunt would last him a while and would require more planning than previous battles, if he were to call them that. No place for a girl like Dreana.

Geralt eyed the board, “Missing cat,” he said.

“Mm?” Dreana turned from Roach’s inquisitive nose to join the witcher at the board.

“Someone’s missing their cat, offering enough coin for supper tonight if we find it,” he looked down at the redhead who furrowed her brows.

“Well. . . could be a good idea before we battle the Beast of Brokilon, yes?” Smiled Dreana.

“No, just the cat. Then I continue on and you’ll return home.”

“Geralt, you said–”

“You will be home by sundown and, with luck, Madam Gloria’s beast will be home then as well,” the witcher tore off the yellowed parchment from the board and sniffed at the corner where the paper was rumpled. He scented the madam’s perfume and caught draught of feline as well.

Geralt had severely underestimated the power of his nose. With a click, he hopped onto Roach’s saddle and took off on a slow trot so that Dreana would have no problems keeping up.

The pair made their way across Dorian, following the loose shrubbery on the outskirts of town as the redhead pondered over ‘ _if I was a cat. . . where would I go?_ ’ and the Rivian dug through the myriads of layers of scents bombarding his nose for any hint of feline.

“How did you end up here, witcher?” Asked Dreana, her fingers lingering on Roach’s flank while she walked.

“In Dorian?”

“Well. . . yes, but, also in Temeria. In the Northern kingdoms?”

“Hm,” the clicking of the mare’s hooves on the mixture of pebbles and the thin layer of muck nearing the forest floor had lulled the witcher into a sort of reverie, eyes dull as his nose worked to sniff out the missing cat. “Not quite sure, we’re making our way north slowly,” Geralt ran his hand over Roach’s mane.

“The life of a witcher? You just walk around and. . . find lost cats?”

The Rivian huffed a laugh, “Quite.”

“Much more interestin’ than mine, I’m not one to judge,” sighed Dreana.

“What of your life?”

“Hm? Well. . . nothing too brave, nor courageous as yourself, savage.”

“Must you call me a savage?”

“Is that not what you are?”

“Well. . .”

“I was born in Gors Velen, my father was a knight and we were well off. He died and my mother became ill, I was sent off to distant relatives here in Dorian. One thing led to another and here we are today,” the redhead kept her gaze to the floor, gesturing to her feet.

“Not all bad?”

“Not all bad,” she agreed before adjusting her tunics with a sigh.

“You know this Madam Gloria?” Asked Geralt, after a while.

“Seen her around, she frequents the town markets, once every few weeks we hold ‘em. Once had a travelling market, ten times larger ‘en the ones we usually have,” Dreana smoothed a petite hand down Roach’s neck, “What’s her favourite snack?”

“Hm? Roach’s?”

“Yes, her favourite snack?”

“Cantaloupe, she’s impartial to most fruits. Apples, grapes, melons. . .” _Cantaloupes_? Geralt had never seen Roach eat a cantaloupe. . . he hadn’t had the chance to meditate in a few days, too busy travelling. He would have to rack his memory for any news on cantaloupes and Roach’s love for them.

“Cantaloupes?” Murmured Dreana, “Haven’t seen a cantaloupe ‘round these parts a while. . . although, I have quite a few friends who travel between the brothel and Gors Velen who might 'ave some. . .”

“Do you live in the brothel?”

“I do now, yes. My dream is to travel the Continent, not unlike you an’ your mare. My parents would tell me stories when I was young, some I remember so clearly. Dragons and magnificent beasts, fae, sirens, elves. My father knew an elf, you ever met any elves?”

“That I have, not too long ago either.”

“I haven’t. . . although I’ve heard many stories ‘bout ‘em,” Dreana went silent a moment, “You’re sure I cannot join you in the hunt for the Beast of Brokilon?”

Geralt’s brows furrowed before he dismounted Roach and watched her sniff at some shrubbery on the roadside.

“You said you have friends in Gors Velen,” said the witcher.

“That I did. Childhood friends, Laurels and his sister Grelda.”

Geralt’s brows furrowed momentarily, “We will travel there together, and you will stay with them.”

Dreana’s lips pursed as she mulled a while, Roach’s munching and the hefty rustle of weeds beneath her hooves was all that could be heard.

“Alright. . . yes, I agree,” the redhead nodded towards Geralt who have an answering smile and gestured with a nod of his head towards the path.

///

 _Bingo_. Geralt’s gloved hand tightened around his mare’s reins as he nudged her towards the scent which briefly wandered over, Dreana was hot on his tail as the witcher dove into a nearby bush. A quick yowl shrilled alongside the grunt of a man and broke the silence of the path before the Rivian appeared, holding up a bright, silver cat by the rough of its neck.

Dreana’s face blew out in a grin as she quickly grasped onto the mewling creature which Roach was impartial to. Geralt, and the new scratch across his forehead, returned to his horse who had located a grand plot of dandelions to munch on.

“Well. . . now we deliver her to Madam Gloria?” Asked Dreana.

“Correct, and we collect our pay.”

“That we do,” smiled the girl, “Let us be off then, _fellow_ savage,” she nestled the cat in her arms and huffed happily as Geralt muttered under his breath.

///

“Oh, aren’t you just a _peach_!” Madam Gloria cawed at Dreana as she awkwardly scooped her silver cat from the redhead and trapped it between her arms and breast.

“My thanks Madam, the payment?”

“Oh, darling girl, run along now. Don’t worry yourself about such fickle things.”

Geralt grumbled from his perch, hidden from Madam Gloria’s view, watching as Dreana frowned at the woman and her frightfully ugly feline.

“Did you not provide a contract, Madam Gloria? And was there no promise of payment?”

“That there was, _dearest_ ,” hissed the woman, narrowing her eyes, “Although that offer did not stretch out to the town whore.”

Geralt’s brow twitched as he lumbered you behind Dreana while the redhead revelled in the worsening shifts in Madam Gloria’s plump face, as her lips quivered and drew up near her nose which scrunched and her eyes widened comically while her brows rose.

“Ten orens,” she stuttered terribly.

“ _Thirty_ orens,” corrected Dreana.

“You _cannot_ be _seriou_ –” the witcher shuffled nearer to Dreana's back and the slits of his eyes narrowed. “Thirty orens, pox on it.”

Dreana grinned brightly, accepting the satchel of coins which she painstakingly counted as the Rivian eyed Madam Gloria and her mewling cat.

“Pleasure doing business,” said the redhead.

“Have a pleasant evening,” said the witcher before the pair shared looks of equal amusement. Dreana plopped the bag of coins in the Rivian’s palm before Geralt could refuse and hopped towards where Roach ambled happily.

///

“ _Must_ we sleep here?” Muttered Dreana, lips pursed, and arms crossed.

“Well, once you find somewhere else to sleep do tell,” huffed the witcher as he prepared the wood for their campfire and adjusted his bedroll for meditation.

“Where are we now. . . then?” Asked the redhead, frowning at Roach as the mare sniffed at the satchel of coins attached to Dreana’s belt.

“Nearing Gors Velen, Brokilon is to the west of us and Vizima to the east.”

“How much longer before we arrive? I’ve never been privy to a walk this far.”

“We’ll be arriving tomorrow, hopefully before noon, only if that suits your majesty,” Geralt gestured, distractedly as Dreana gasped, offended.

“You truly are a savage, Geralt the witcher. . . wait a moment, where am I sleeping?” The Rivian nodded towards the bedroll of lush grass and heavy, leather satchel pillows.

///

It was safe to say that Dreana claimed the witcher’s bedroll while Geralt dug his knees into the moist shrubbery beside Roach and closed his eyes in meditation. Clearing his head was much easier following their meal of whichever poor hare fell under the brunt of the witcher’s senses and the knowledge that the forests the pair were passing were free of life for miles surrounding.

Geralt breathed in a lungful of heavy, humid air while the crackling of the flame he’d Signed while Dreana was off picking herbs filled his ears. The witcher’s mind cleared as he fell into the simple depth of those dark, empty sections of his psyche which held all he had to know and now did not. And again, those clearest voices returned:

“ _Geralt_!” The sharp laugh of someone melodic.

“ _Geralt_ ,” the annoyed hum of a woman.

“ _Geralt,_ ” the gruff, boyish laughter of two men.

“ _Geralt_!” The huff of an older man.

“ _Geralt_?” The rumble of a heavy voice of which the Rivian had the most difficult time of placing. The first four felt most familiar, although echoed and warped as if they called for him below rushing water; the last felt much further. A question behind it as the rest called simply, clearly, the last asked for him – for a version of him.

Geralt sunk deeper, as though his body was cast in silver and left in sinking sand. He dug for any fleeting mention of cantaloupes, more information on Roach, his beloved mare. Dreana triggered nothing, unsurprisingly, although he hoped to soon find another Nivellen, another Siegfried.

An emblem of a flaming rose shot across his vision, alongside it, the picture of a young knight with light hair and an angular face which made him seem much older than he truly was. The resemblance was evident to the Siegfried Geralt had encountered in Brugge, the deep-set eyes and angles, although he was older then, so much older.

How many years had passed since they had first met? How many years had the voices calling for him, the voice asking for him. . . how long had they waited? And for what, for a witcher who had no memory of them? Barely any connection at all?

Years. . . they too must have moved on, mustn’t have they? Geralt reluctantly blinked himself back from his heavy meditation, the fire long dead and Roach and Dreana deep into their respective slumbers. He rolled his shoulders and with a low, rumbling hum, lay back against the lush greenery he’d plastered flat before.

///

A tavern stood proudly on the roadside following Geralt and Dreana’s trek to Gors Vellen. The _Heady Apple_ was rickety with character and attracted the redhead just so that the Witcher reluctantly agreed to spend the night there – as Dreana offered kindly to split the payment for their lodgings – following the meeting with the alderman on the Beast of Brokilon.

He could see the tips of the thick forest’s densely packed treetops far on the horizon as the pair trickled into the flat and vast expanse of Gors Vellen proper. The city thrummed with life as shopkeeps and customers buzzed between kiosks, inns and workstations alike with a heady air of comfortable pompousness. A few traders bravely turned their nose from the witcher’s hulking form beside Dreana’s sprite-like frame.

Following various confrontations with impolite citizens, the pair was directed to the alderman’s and with Dreana’s eyes on Roach, Geralt nudged open the door they were led to. Wooden panels creaked beneath heavy boots as he entered the office space.

A stout, plump man adjusted himself in his stool behind a grand desk and licked the tip of his quill before he began to write. Geralt watched the motion keenly and patiently awaited.

The plump man paused with his scrawls to eye the Witcher from over the wired frame of his spectacles. With a long-suffering huff, he plopped the tip of his quill into a tiny jar of ink and clasped together his fat fingers adorned with rings.

“May I help you?” The plump man grumbled, almost gurgled.

“I have arrived from Dorian, news of a monster in Brokilon forest,” said Geralt.

“Ah, the Beast of Brokilon?” The plump man tapped his fingers across the resin oak of his desk.

“Mhm.”

“Haven’t gotten many witchers waltzing about through here. . .” hummed the alderman.

“What information can you give me on the beast?”

“Not too much, I’m afraid. The knightly Order of Gors Vellen has decided to take its shot on the beast before they allow me to employ a witcher.”

“Why the contract then?”

“I know exactly what those young men are getting themselves into, witcher, it’ll be a miracle if one of them crawls out of Brokilon alive. I’ll want you there to get rid of the thing afterwards. Good thing you came now, they’re planning to attack two nights from now.”

“Why not warn the knights?”

“Believe you me, I have tried,” sighed the alderman, “Stubborn boys they all are, each derived of nobility, used to getting what they want. You must have some experience with _those_ sorts of beasts?”

“Hm,” agreed Geralt.

“What say you? I know this monster and what its head is worth around these parts. Eighty orens, not a coin more.”

“Without knowledge of the beast, I cannot accept nor decline your offer, alderman,” grumbled the Rivian, “I will arrive in the afternoon of the second day before they depart, and we will decide then.”

“Alright, as you like it, witcher,” said the alderman, reluctantly, before inclining his head.

“Any more contracts I should be aware of?”

The alderman hummed before screeching back on his stool to shuffle through some papers below his desk. “Not at the moment, you best be off,” Geralt returned to Dreana and Roach as the afternoon sun washed over the pale architecture of Gors Velen.

“Here,” Dreana tucked one of her kerchiefs beneath one of the thickest of belts stretching across Geralt’s form, “For your battle. . . shall we settle into that room?” She asked.

“I’ll get Roach into the city stables so head onwards without me,” the witcher reached towards his satchel of coins, depleted following the dry spell since Brugge, and handed Dreana an estimate for the room.

The pair parted while Geralt wondered if he had become too trustworthy. Roach nudged her head against his chest while the Witcher began removing her bit and the rest of her tack.

“How are you faring? They’ve got oats for you here, and I spotted an apple tree not far,” said the Rivian while he brushed.

Roach sniffled and tapped at the sandy ground with her front hoof in reply.

“You’ll be able to rest here for the next few days.”

///

“O! And lovely Callonetta, her every word is poetry!” A brightly dressed troubadour grinned towards the crowd, the feather of his cap tremored as he strode comfortably onto the stage and adjusted the wide strap of his lute across his chest. He outstretched a graceful hand towards a blonde woman in equally colourful garb, Callonetta, Geralt guessed.

The blonde laid her fingers to the troubadour’s and was led to centre stage in an intricate stride most travelling bards seem to have had perfected. Shooting a bright smile towards the crowd, Callonetta thanked the man with the lute before settling herself on the tall wooden stool at centre stage to await the inevitable calm of the rowdy patrons.

The blonde’s dainty fingers plucked prettily at the strings of her lute, producing a fluttery sound which lulled the tavern into utter silence.

Geralt and Dreana had settled into their shared room for the evening and decided upon visiting the inn, the pair took their place in the corner where the candlelight daren’t reach. The redhead delighted in their watered ale and heady atmosphere while bodies piled in as Callonetta played. Her voice rang beautifully across the lacquered wood of the tavern, the strums of her lute fell blessedly into place beside the harmony of her voice and Geralt allowed himself a moment to sit back and listen.

The witcher pressed his back against the wall behind him, low vibrations of the blonde’s voice and her lute rippled across his armour and fluttered at his skin. Callonetta sang stories of blissful lovers, an elf and a mage, she sang of their chance meeting and how the colour of their hair mingled on satin pillows during heated, restless nights. She sang of how forever was a dream away. Dreana’s eyes had blown wide as the pair listened and stood to applaud alongside every patron of the inn when Callonetta’s song drew to a heavenly end.

The troubadour from before strode across the stage, a bright grin across his face as he held the blonde’s hand while she stood from her perch and bowed prettily to the crowd.

As Callonetta left the stage, the brightly dressed bard took her place. “Good evening wonderful patrons, that was Callonetta,” the crowd roared before the troubadour strummed a few skilled fingers across his lute strings to quieten them once more.

The bard sang a song of an old man who lived up high in the mountains with his three sons. The floor was cleared in the meantime and people paired up to dance to the rhythm of his voice and lute.

Geralt sat back and listened to the ringing of his voice, lilting tones as he narrated a story of the old man’s warrior sons, the beat of the lute heightened and threw the dancers for a spin.

The troubadour began stomping one shiny boot against the wood of the stage and grinned around the words as he sang them. The patrons must have known this song as each began singing along to the chorus and stamping whichever body part they could to the beat.

The noise stopped abruptly as the bard weakened the strength of his strumming and quit the tapping of his boot, the grin fell from his face as he finished the story with a low, mournful voice. The old man’s first son had run away from the tops of the mountains and fell and fell and fell down into the mouth of a dragon who awaited him at the bottom.

The troubadour plucked at his strings and finished the song with a soft, lilting flourish of his fingers before the tavern exploded with cheers and whistles. A third bard hopped onto the stage as the brightly dressed troubadour bowed deeply until the tip of the feather atop his hat whispered against the floor.

“Dandelion everyone!” Yelled the third bard to the chorus of cheers, grinning towards his friend who promptly exited the stage with a flourish and a bright smile.

And Geralt watched Dandelion the bard from his perch under the cover of shadows beside Dreana who continued her fawning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next update will be up in two weeks time. See you then!


	7. Beast of Brokilon

The leather of Geralt’s boots squelched against the muck of the dense forest surrounding him from all sides. The blade of his silver sword caught onto sparse dashes of light that mingled through the treetops. His eyes flicked between every movement of the shrubbery and leaves surrounding him.

Brokilon thrummed beneath his feet. Something slept there. . . and it had been asleep for many moons. The forest thrummed with magic, and energy ran through Geralt’s very being as he dredged further and further through the swampy expanse that caught onto his boots and flicked at the leather across his thighs.

The witcher’s golden gaze flittered between the grand expanse of flora and fauna, of enormous, bright flowers and scatterings of mushrooms drenched in potent poisons. The alderman had sent for him following the departure of the town Order, not one of the knights had returned from the forest since the group rode out of Gors Vellen proper one evening ago.

Dreana’s eyes had widened at the mention of the Beast of Brokilon, while the alderman’s assistant ambled into the tavern in search of them following another round of bardic performances. Geralt had managed to push the price to one hundred orens without any knowledge of the beast. He imagined that this was a foolish mistake, a dangerous one at that, although his remaining coin had been spent on his and Dreana’s lodgings at the Heady Apple. He could admit to himself that he was desperate.

The witcher trudged further through the forest, eyes peeled, and longsword gripped tight. Every step led him deeper through the lush greenery and enchanted landscape. Geralt’s medallion began vibrating at a higher intensity as he stepped foot on a heavy, mossy root. He stood, stock still, eyes and ears surveying. . . studying; the shifts in the air, the headiness of the breeze and. . . the scuffling of many feet.

The Rivian ventured nearer, lightly treading over the moist terrain with his sword at the ready. Knees braced in light crouches with each step, Geralt prepared his body to spring as he approached the distant sound of scuffling, conversations in foreign tongues. So far away.

Until they weren’t.

The air around Geralt ebbed as his medallion tremored against his chest, tapping rapidly against his armour as a dozen sets of wide eyes bored into him. Geralt blinked and gloved fingers wound tighter around the handle of his silver blade.

Here where he had stumbled, the air was much thinner, less humid. Sunlight sliced through the air much more potently and fell in concentrated patches across the bodies of the dryads who watched the witcher quite intently, his eyes adjusted quickly before the cloak across this place he had stumbled into retreated across the forest and the dryads were lost to the unending greenery.

The witcher spun slowly around himself, careful to forego his boots slipping from the moss and flat stones beneath, a great river once flowed where he stood. He was sure of it. Wading further into the quiet of Brokilon, Geralt slipped his sword back into its holster and wondered if he was correct in assuming that he would require the silver over the steel.

The sky thundered above him, a warning for the heavy drops ahead. The witcher eyed the treetops and scented the heady musk of forest air. Any trace of the knights who had presumably found their end there was lost to the dampness hanging all around and, as the roots coiled below his feet, intertwined with the breath of the forest.

Geralt imagined a peaceful death for them. The faraway distressed neighing of a horse pulled him from his reverie, ears bordering on twitching – not unlike the canine sat against his chest – as he listened closer. Raindrops sputtered and plopped against leaves of giant trees, few at first before hitting the crescendo of the storm. The witcher’s careful steps turned into determined leaps as he began running through the rain, his boots slapping against the quickly moistening floor.

He slipped, another neigh sounded closer, Geralt caught himself and fell into a sprint as one gloved hand gripped the slick handle of his drenched longsword. He unsheathed his silver blade once again, the rain pattering through his head as it did against the plants who rejoiced, unlike the Rivian. Drenched, Geralt slowed into the wade that he’d taken up into Brokilon. His boots quickly found balance against twining roots and bushels of moss; the horse neighed once more.

Geralt sliced few large leaves and hanging branches before reaching the distressed animal, a destrier – strong-bodied thing – which stomped and kicked against the trees surrounding it, hooves struggling to balance against the slip underfoot. Upon its golden bridle sat blinders, the cause of its anguish. The witcher flicked his gaze around and across, scouring the area before sheathing his sword and attempting to soothe the beast. The horse huffed against the familiar feeling between its eyes and brayed as Geralt unlatched the offending tack and tossed it to the ground.

Honey brown eyes blinked against the heavy rain, the Order’s golden drapes sat drenched against the horse’s back and flank and too were flung off by the Rivian. Speaking few words lost to the thunder, Geralt grabbed hold of the reins and nudged the stallion towards a clearing nearby where the treetops were thicker and nearer to the ground.

The pair stayed put in their respective places to await the passing of the storm. The witcher grumbled beneath his breath as his drenched gambeson stuck to his body similarly to the horse’s garb. It would have been unwise to strip himself of it as much as he desired. The rain picked up and the dark destrier knocked a heavy hoof against the floor.

“I know,” said Geralt, unsheathing his sword and the blessedly dry kerchief which Dreana had gifted him. The Rivian busied himself with wiping against the blade, switching between the silver and his forehead as droplets sneaked their way across his skin following their escape from saturated hair.

The stallion shook its mane and swished its drenched tail as the pair awaited the inevitable slowing of the rain, Geralt hummed for a moment and decided upon meditating for a while. The rhythm of the rain had lulled him into a surface level meditation, in which he spent his time listening to those voices which wrought his mind since he first found himself in Skellige those moons prior.

“ _Geralt_!” Sharp.

“ _Geralt._ ” Annoyed.

“ _Geralt._ ” Boyish.

“ _Geralt_!” Huffed.

“ _Geralt_?” And that final one he was yet to place. . . worried? Content? They had all rumbled akin to mantras through his head, sat behind where his thoughts would and reminded him of their existence every once in a while. The stallion whinnied, clacking its teeth against the slippery strands of grass around its hooves, snapping Geralt from his meditation.

The witcher blinked through the rain, catching hints of thin satchels strapped beside and beneath the horse’s saddle. Geralt made quick work of the leather and tossed golden buckles before digging his hands through the bags.

With a moment of mirth, the Rivian leaned nearer and sniffed. Food. Jerky, long strips of the stuff packaged in wax parchment and tied with golden strings. Alongside sat a love letter, proposedly from the dead knight’s beloved, wishing him a grand journey and prosperous return.

Geralt huffed and tucked the jerky beneath his gambeson while continuing his hunt through the stallion’s satchels. He found a jewel bedazzled dagger which he slid down his boot and a wad of parchments bound in old leathers with the emblem on the stallion’s drapes emblazoned through the material.

The witcher was above taking from a dead man, yet he expected that both the horse and its golden dagger and jerky would have met a near fate to whoever owned them prior. The rain had not yet let up, who knew where the stallion would have trudged, how much longer it would have taken for it to slip and break its legs and be finally laid to rest within the stomach of a predator.

For that, Geralt was not above. The naturality of the hunt was engrained in his system, this he knew and yet decided upon pulling the lonely stallion beneath the thicker leaves to wait out the rain. The witcher washed his blade once more and dried the slick from it with Dreana’s damp kerchief before the crackling of thunder quieted as it tumbled along with the storm.

With a quick click of his tongue, Geralt beckoned the horse from their perch and they continued forward, deeper yet into Brokilon. He wondered if those dryads would care for the stallion if he were to leave it to its own devices. The creaking of heavy wood sounded through the forest and the witcher halted, gloved fingers tightened at golden reins and the others readied his sword.

Geralt placed one hand against the horse’s neck, steadying it, and threw the reins to the floor where they disappeared amongst the long tresses of grass. He trekked further in silence, slicing through heavy leaves as he neared the sound of creaking trees and the ruffling of branches. The huff of an animal.

The witcher crouched slightly, his body drawn like a bow, and continued his soft steps. He noticed the roots had become wilder the further he trekked as he approached a grand clearing where the silver sky was most visible and reflected its cold light against the near mist of the air.

The knights of the Order wore strong armour which must have withstood few of the torturous beatings they received through the night following their departure, the chinks in all armour were the thin slivers of flesh bare at the back of the joints and around the neck before helmets, gloves and boots. The leshen had taken full advantage of these quirks and crackled contently at the bones of a knight who was much too slow for the heavy roots which had a hold of the lower half of his person.

The stench of newly spoiled flesh percolated across the clearing, Geralt’s nose twitched as his gaze hardened while flicking through his selective memory bank of monsters which had made it through his amnesia. Leshen. Leshen, he _knew_. . . Geralt knew he was not prepared for this beast. He was unsure of which oil his blade should be slick with, he was unsure of this beast’s tactics and cunning.

The stag skull clicked with every snap of its jaw and mushrooms grew happily in the dampness of the cavities in its chest. The mountain of armour was discouraging, the witcher could count over five suits scattered across the clearing. Not one knight had made it out alive if the scent of the path Geralt took had anything to deliver.

The tearing of flesh from bone had quietened abruptly as the beast creaked from its place and stood to its full height, head turned. The dead face tracked every flutter of the branches around it and a quarter of the knight’s gored body shifted alongside. Geralt held his breath as his eyes flicked between the beast and its horns to the man skewered on its claws.

On quick, silent feet, the witcher turned back to where he left the stallion and picked up the reins once again.

///

“A _what_?” Came the alderman's gurgle, his fists glowing red against the parchments scattered across his desk.

“One hundred orens seems like a steal for this beast!” Cried Dreana following her abrupt entrance into the alderman’s office.

“A leshen,” growled Geralt, his gaze hardening as the stout man straightened his back. “You sent near a dozen knights to their deaths, alderman.”

“I was not. . . I was not _told_ of a leshen among those woods,” squeaked the plump man as he snatched his quill from its holder and trembled as he dunked it into a pot of ink. “The beast I sent them to was a dryad, witcher. You must believe me,” his voice lowered as he scritched across various parchments. “One hundred orens to tell their families.” The alderman looked up from behind the large feather of his quill as Dreana crossed her arms over her chest and scowled as the witcher frowned.

“I will return in the morning for the leshen contract,” said Geralt stiffly.

“And fuck you,” said the redhead as the alderman balked and the pair exited his office.

///

“Gods, Geralt. You could’ve died!” Yelled Dreana, tearing at the stale bread spread with lard.

“What was that about staying with your friends in Gors Velen?” Huffed the Rivian around his jerky.

“Most reside in a watchtower yonder near the forest. . . I may depart in the morning.” Dreana sighed in defeat.

“If you wish.”

“The work of a witcher has not much to do with me, does it?”

“Well. . . the work of a witcher has not much to do with anything,” laughed the Rivian around the rim of his waterskin. The redhead rested her chin in her palm while her gaze wandered across the tavern. The stage had been filled with tables as the entertainment travelled onwards past Gors Velen, so patrons clicked their boots against the ground and whistled every once in a while to mimic the music and songs they missed.

“What are you planning come morning?” Asked Dreana.

“I will make good on my agreement.”

“You’re returning to the forest? Well. . . who am I to change your mind? As you can tell, we’ve barely enough for one more night,” the redhead drained her tankard of watered milk before slapping one hand on their table and launching herself from her chair. “I’m off to bed. Rest, Geralt.”

The witcher raised his remaining bit of bread in acknowledgement and watched Dreana disappear into thrum of rowdy patrons. He cleared both of their plates and was off in search of a weapons dealer to top up his oils. As far as he had dug in his – limited – memory, Geralt had next to no recollection of which herbs went into the countless salves, oils and potions he was sure would be of use to him.

With the fifty orens in the satchel at his waist, the Rivian shrugged his coat across broad shoulders and ventured through the night. The remaining kiosks had begun blowing out their lanterns and packing their wares before Geralt spotted an arms dealer not far from the Heady Apple.

“Have you any blade oils?” Spoke the Rivian to the merchant’s back, who, with a quick grunt, turned on her heels.

The merchant’s eyes blew wide and the armoured boots she held fell to the floor with a clatter. “Geralt! Lords! Is that really you?”

“It seems as though everyone knows me except myself,” sighed the witcher, more to himself.

“Abigail, do you remember? We first met in the outskirts of Vizima, you brought Alvin into my care. . .” Abigail eyed Geralt’s blank look with great suspicion. “My. . . apologies. I seem to have mistaken you for someone else.”

“My name is Geralt, you are correct. My memory was compromised, and I only have knowledge of events from barely few moons ago,” explained the witcher, golden eyes tracking the red-haired lady as his pendant began to tremor beneath his brigandine.

Abigail shuddered a breath into her hand, wide eyes tracking over the Rivian’s form before she ushered him away from the kiosk. She packed the rest of her wares in silence and locked her area with keys that seemed to span the length of her hand.

“Come,” said Abigail, and took upon a brisk stride in the direction of a little room nearing the centre of town which sat above a fabric parlour. The odd click and clank of Geralt’s boots against the old, wooden stairs and the tip of his sword handle on the low ceiling was all that was heard as they traversed the staircase to Abigail’s quarters. With a flick of her fingers, the candles spanning the corners of the room flickered to life, much to Geralt’s surprise. A sorceress?

Abigail nodded towards a worn armchair which she turned to face her bed where she sat and crossed her legs beneath the wide skirt of her tunic. “It isn’t much, but it shall do,” her voice rang through the tiny space, “You’ve seen me in much worse,” sighed the redhead and flicked her fingers once more to produce two goblets of silver filled to the brim with aged peach wine.

“I have?” Asked Geralt, one brow lifted momentarily before he sniffed the contents of the goblet.

“You have,” smiled the woman, averting her gaze. “The circumstances were quite different yet. . . you had also mentioned amnesia. Times have changed, no matter how much you remember. Have a drink.” She paused to allow the witcher a sip of wine. When he hummed in approval, she continued. “I am a witch, you are a witcher. This was many summers ago, I would have recognised you either way – mind. Could this be the same reason you had lost your memory then?”

“Well. . . I am yet to find out. You’re the third I’ve met since then who has known me prior,” Geralt took a drink.

“I am? Who are the others?”

“Nivellen and Siegfried.”

“Ah, Siegfried I know,” said Abigail. “And Nivellen. . .” she placed a finger to her lips in thought. “I’ve no knowledge of him. Where did you meet Siegfried? How is he?”

“I met him in Brugge not long ago. He is happily married and serves the people as he did when we first met; the villagers call him their protector.”  
“He has done well for himself,” smiled the witch before drinking a few dregs of her wine.

“I believe he has,” nodded the witcher.

“Well. Geralt. Have you the time for a story of your past?”

“I’ve until morning.”

“Then. . . may it trigger a happy memory,” she lifted her goblet and the clink of silver to silver sounded off through the room. “I was living in a shack in the outskirts of Vizima, north to the town inn. As a witch I was not well liked but required as a merchant to which I made my coin and stayed well out of the way of the villagers and they stayed well out of the way of me. Are you hungry?” Abigail eyed the empty table to their side and muttered a spell following Geralt’s affirmation.

The table shone with glazed meats and potatoes and a salad which scented of vinegar, greens and a fine cheese. “My thanks,” said the witcher and dug in.

“Of course, you are my friend, Geralt.” Smiled Abigail around her glass.

“You mentioned an Alvin?”

“Yes, Alvin was a boy you saved through your travels in Vizima.”

“Was?”

“Well. . . times have changed, Geralt. So have people. That may be a story for when you have more time. Anyways, Alvin was orphaned following a barghest attack, you brought him to me to take in. He was a special boy, magically speaking. Very powerful, I’ve only ever heard of children like him twice in my life.”

“Who is the other?”

Abigail paused, she picked at one of the glazed potatoes, “Would you believe me if I told you that it is best you find out yourself?”

“I would,” huffed the witcher.

“Now, the beast tormenting the villagers which had controlled the barghests around Vizima was said to have been brought upon by me. A mob was formed, and a lynching ordered. I was to be burnt at the stake if it wasn’t for you. The two of us escaped, saved ourselves and exposed the villagers of Vizima. And of course, I expressed my gratitude, yet I will forever be thankful that you came when you did,” smiled the witch behind her glass.

“Why stay if they had so much against you?” Geralt hummed around some pork crackling.

“They were also my greatest customers; I would sell herbs for poisons and the like for the town Order and guard. Recipes, oils. . . only recently did I delve into the world of weaponry and armoury. Life became too long for me to stay rooted in one place and so I began to travel with my kiosk and horse after you left Vizima. Old mare has tired of me already, of that I am sure,” grinned the witch.

“You’re in need of a horse? I found a stallion belonging to one of the knights of the town Order alone in Brokilon, he is with my mare in the stables.”

“Thank you, Geralt, but that is a horse belonging to a dead man, touched by Brokilon no less. Destiny has its plans for that stallion as she does for my old mare.”

“What was I like?” The witcher watched as the wine in his cup filled itself, “Back then?” He added.

“Not too different to how you are now,” chuckled Abigail, “You were very charming. Headstrong almost to a fault, kind to those weaker than you as much as they did not deserve it. You taught both Alvin and me something that we never would have learnt if it weren’t for you. I am glad to know you are well, albeit. . . shall I help you with your memory? I may try a few spells if you’d be willing?”

“No, I have decided to let it come naturally.”

“If it may.”

“Right. Although. . . you said you sold herbs for potions and oils and the like.”

“Yes?”

“Have you stock of any recipes, witcher oils and potions?”

“Ah, quite. I have a few recipes no longer useful to me as I’ve memorised each. You assisted me in logging them following our first meeting. Very simple potions. . . here,” Abigail magicked a few rolls of parchment beside their meal, along with a grand restock of each of the potions Geralt had on his person in Skellige, along with some he had no recollection of.

“Abigail–”

“No matter, Geralt. You are my friend and I take it upon myself to help you in any way I can. Here are your average potions, shall I talk you through them?”

“My thanks.”

“You must have already used Cat, have you?”

“Cat?” Abigail popped the cork out of a tiny vial and the scent threw Geralt back to that night with Siegfried where he found the griffin’s nest.

“I have, the name is new to me, but I know of the effects.”

“Here, I have the recipe. Once we go through each of the ones you will be using most usually, the rest are simple. Do you recognise the names of these herbs?”

“Berbercane. . .”

Abigail magicked the herb. “This shall be a helpful fruit. You require a few to craft Cat, the rest are alchemical ingredients which you may find through your battles. I will also provide stock of the herbs you might need.”

“Abigail–”

“Worry not, Geralt,” she placed her hand on the witcher’s shoulder and smiled, “This is nothing compared to how you helped me.”

The pair spent a good portion of their night talking through the effects of each potion and oil while logging them into the witcher’s memory through scent and hue alone. Abigail explained which herbs and alcohols would be required and how to prepare many of the potions he was unsure of beforehand. Cat for seeing in the dark and a few more to provide strength. Most surrounded alchemical healing and blade oils to incur further damage to monsters.

By morning, it was Abigail’s turn to depart as Geralt readied himself for the alderman’s once more, new potions and oils in tow. She had strapped her cart to her old mare and hummed for a moment before pointing to his boots.

“You’ve a dagger in there?”

“I do.”

“Is it yours?”

“It is not.”

“Well,” Abigail held out a hand, accepting the golden blade which belonged to the dead knight, she rustled around the tarp in her cart and smiled. The witch handed Geralt a silver dagger with wolves emblazoned in the leather of the handle. “Here. . . one final token of my appreciation.”

“I–”

“May it be useful when you most need it,” grinned Abigail. “Safe travels my friend.” The sun rose behind her as she left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the late update! I might have to throw Great Sun into hiatus following the next few updates as real life keeps interfering with writing time. Don't worry, I promise that the chapter 8 update will be up next Friday. I've also started a game of Dragon Age Inquisition so there's that to be obsessing over. . . See you next week!


	8. Rabbit's Foot

The clouds from Geralt’s last trek into Brokilon had all rolled south by the time he returned to the forest. Clear skies emptied his head as he entered the vast expanse of greenery once more, silver blade slick with relict oil thanks to Abigail’s recipes and his new dagger tucked neatly in one boot. 

The Rivian scented the air and caught onto a bashful hint of blood, intermingled with the humidity of the forest. His eyes traced everything. The witcher walked further, careful to not slip on the moist floor or intertwine himself in roots and gangly shrubbery. A hare sprinted across his vision and his sword was pulled from its holster just as fast while scattering feet drew further away as the dark rabbit escaped from whatever was chasing it. Geralt sniffed. Mushrooms. His golden eyes tracked across the clearing before he heard it. 

The creaking of wood. 

Geralt prodded the dense leaves before him with the tip of his sword as a low growl sounded a few yards behind. With steady feet, he slid between the greenery and trekked into a lighter clearing where the sun fell in slivers and cast harsh shadows across the architecture of the leshen. 

The beast fell back into a slow, rumbling scream which diluted into the cawing of crows from nearby. 

Then yelled one of the voices from his head. “ _Twerhau_!” Geralt lunged forwards, his longsword swung above his head as he struck the leshen mid-roar . “ _Mittelhou_ _then unterhau_!” In quick succession, the witcher swung his blade and caught the towering beast in its chest and side. The leshen raised its talons before digging them into the earth beneath. Geralt leapt as far as he could before thick roots twined upwards from the forest floor. He huffed through his teeth and lunged forwards once more while the crows drew nearer still. 

As the leshen roared, its body lumbering much slower than other beasts Geralt had encountered, the Rivian’s eyes lit up. Tracing the fire Sign – he’d have to name it something – with his fingers, the witcher blasted a stream of as heavy a flame as he could manage towards the creature as the crows descended upon them. The chaotic flapping of their wings from above forced the sunlight into flickers, they surrounded the beast which, with one mighty groan, disappeared as the crows scattered off. 

Geralt growled from deep within his chest, swinging his longsword from side to side. It seemed that his pathetic battle had drawn an unwanted audience. A pack of. . . wolves, large and grey, intermingled with spectres. Barghests. Abigail had mentioned them. The rotted dogs’ flesh shone a sickly cream, with a heavy green mist surrounding them as they snapped at the witcher, eyeless and tracking him with scent alone. 

The wolves bared their yellowed fangs and crowded around each other and Geralt, heavy bodies shoving and panting while they sniffed. Wolves and dogs in such a damp forest? They must have been. . . summoned. The leshen. The witcher huffed through his nose before tracing the tip of his sword across the moss and muck before him. He watched as the beasts’ eyes followed the movement, slowly and carefully. 

Geralt let out a breath before launching forwards on the lulled animals. His silver blade swung above his head, catching the dull light of the sun falling through the treetops. Geralt grunted as his first hit swiped across the back of a wolf’s head, his second sliced at a barghest’s paw. Snapped out of their distraction, the beasts grew raucous and yowled and growled, the witcher counted nine. A dark wolf pounced at his chest, large claws catching on the belts strapped across his brigandine. 

“ _What a waste of relic oil_ ,” the bodyless voice of the older man muttered as the witcher dove the tip of his blade between the beast’s ribs and through its heart. The Rivian hissed as jaws clamped around his calf through the leather of his boots before he pirouetted into a crouching blow at the offending barghest. 

He dove away from the cluster of canines, slipping on the moist floor and quickly studied the playing field from his position on the ground; he had rid himself of three of the beasts so far, six more to go. So they pounced, one directly into the tip of Geralt’s hurriedly outstretched sword. The wolf slumped against the witcher’s hold, falling dead, impaling itself further down the length of the silver blade. 

The snapping of drooling maws at his sides triggered a speedy grab towards the dagger Abigail had gifted him. Geralt thought quickly, golden eyes flicking between the most apparent threats. With a heavy grunt, the Rivian planted his feet against the impaled wolf’s stomach and kicked it off his blade towards the cluster to his left. A few yowls and rolling bodies signaled his good aim before the witcher flicked the blade of his longsword flat against his rigid forearm, the dagger pointed towards the barghests and wolf remaining. 

Baring his teeth, Geralt grunted and fell into a routine which had become quickly familiar. From a pirouette, he fell into a twerhau, striking the first barghest across the back of the head. The witcher followed the natural thrust of his blade into a second pirouette and landed a hit on the wolf behind. With a yowl, a barghest threw itself at the wound on the Rivian’s leg as a second pounced for his wielding arm. 

With a puff of hot air, Geralt speedily stuck his dagger deep into the flesh of the barghest at his forearm. His hissing mingled with that of the rotting flesh sputtering against the silver blade as the beast kept its bear trap of a maw locked tight. Heavy canines dug to the bone in one final push before the barghest fell to the floor while Geralt took care of the second at his calf. The witcher’s wielding arm swung forwards, the long blade digging into the nape of the beast’s neck. 

Hot blood sizzled and mingled between the layers of Geralt’s torn armour, he was nearly drenched in it. As the canine at his calf took its final breath, the remaining barghest threw itself to the witcher’s feet in an attempt to wound the Rivian further. Geralt’s silver blade sliced hotly through the flesh along the beast’s spine before digging through its heavy layers of muscle and finishing it off. 

Running the back of one less ravaged forearm across his bloody Cupid’s bow, the witcher fell back against the flattened grass beneath. With shallow breaths he spotted and tugged the corpse of the great dark wolf from behind, which had torn at his back, nearer from his laying position and lounged against the beast’s heavy body. Geralt outstretched his legs slowly with a low hiss before pulling off a glove to skim across the few vials belted across one thigh. 

He sniffed at the nearest potion before swallowing the few dregs and tucking the empty vial back into its holster. The sun fell through the treetops at a steeper angle, showering the canine’s corpses in sharp light, and slicing across the witcher’s outstretched form. The sound of Geralt’s heart quickening reverberated in his head as he felt the skin at the caverns of his wounds tighten. He lay in golden light for a while. 

/// 

“Ar kurs, er wird es _schaffen_ ,” someone hissed from both near and far. 

“Es kenne, es kenne, besorn vas’ll creassa er tua,” sniffed a higher voice. 

Geralt’s nose scrunched against the barrage of scents and light flooded through the thin skin of his eyelids. He blinked himself into the present. . . a large tent surrounded him. Two sparsely dressed women fluttered in and out of his vision, olive blurs moving between where he lay and the space around him. The witcher’s eyes then slowly tracked the line of his body, he was laid upon a thatching of heavy roots coiled into the shape of a solid slab beneath. His boots, holstered sword and belts were propped against a tree trunk not far from where he lay, his trousers were rolled up to his knees. Bandages scented of honey and spices were wrapped, soaking across his bare chest, back and legs where they glowed a bright blue and throbbed against his skin. Shuffling sounds of scriptures and the clinking of bottles lulled him into calm. 

Geralt remembered the battle with the canines, his deep wounds from the fight and the leshen escaping. Growling something unintelligible, the witcher attempted to support himself on the backs of his forearms against the mossy roots. 

“N’te, n’te, dormi,” huffed a woman with pale, leafy skin. Her dark eyes caught Geralt’s puzzled gaze as he failed to remember the dialect. He was sure that he had learned it, dryad dialect. “Here,” said the woman in common tongue, extending a wooden bowl of mild smelling liquid to Geralt’s lips. The Rivian’s brows furrowed, although his throat rejoiced at the prospect of hydration. “Told you,” turning, she spoke to the second dryad. 

“Way to be humble, sister,” the woman muttered from her seat at the stump where his boots rested, a bowstring hooked across one shoulder. She too drank from a wooden bowl. “Witcher, you’ve woken.” 

“Should I ask where?” Geralt took another dreg of the sickeningly sweet liquid. The woman nearest to him sniffed a laugh, light eyes flicking to her sister. 

“Milva Laeke,” said the dryad. 

“Milva Laeke,” repeated the witcher slowly. 

“Yes, one of many non-human settlements across the Continent,” said the nearer sister, “Now drink, it’ll help with bruising.” 

“My thanks,” bracing on one forearm, Geralt took the bowl from the woman and brought the concoction to his lips. “A non-human settlement you say.” _Not unlike that of_ _Baeg Blath_. He paused for a moment to wonder about the elf and dwarf he’d met there. 

“Ours’ one of the largest,” the sister hid a sharp smile behind her bowl, draining the thing before standing from her perch to hover above the witcher. “We’ve not seen your kind many moons. . . Geralt.” Her eyes were calculating, shifting between the Rivian’s before she huffed something in that foreign tongue and flicked her gaze back to her sister. 

“My name, you know of me?” Asked Geralt. 

“Oh yes, we’re not ones to forget faces and names. . . Maréll,” the dryad inclined her head momentarily. 

“Brinna,” said her sister. 

“Pleasure.” 

“What brings you here, witcher?” Hummed Maréll. 

“Well–” 

“Is that not a matter of council, sister?” Interrupted Brinna. “We’ve such for a reason, let the witcher heal.” 

The skin around Maréll’s nose tightened briefly before she nodded and exited the tent with a flourish of dark hair and green skin. 

“Who found me?” Asked Geralt after the flapping of the tent’s canvas ceased, his golden eyes followed the green skinned woman before she moved behind him. 

“No time for that yet. . .” Brinna spoke softly. “We’ve prepared you a healing bath. Can you move?” 

“I’ll manage,” grunted the witcher as he heaved his legs from their perch on the root bed. “Have you the recipe for this concoction?” Geralt held the wooden bowl back to his lips, finishing it off. “I can feel it working already.” 

“You don’t know it?” Asked the dryad. 

“Probably might. I definitely knew many years ago at least, the mind’s not what it was,” he hoped Brinna bought his bluff. . . judging from her sceptical gaze, she hadn’t. 

“Rest now, bathe, I will return once you finish,” said the dryad, eyes flicking across the clear water of the wooden bath before she too nodded and left the tent behind her sister. 

Geralt cleared his throat and placed the bowl aside, he huffed at the burn the twist caused against the wounds of his chest and sides. The witcher divulged himself of his trousers and the honey-scented bandages, grumbling as they caught against the raw flesh of jagged cuts. His eyes traced the contrast of his pale skin to the lush green grass beneath his feet before he stood. 

Near the tub, Geralt spotted wooden vials of bathing liquids corked with mulches, each scented differently. They were all pleasant, although he chose the one scented of mild citrus. Deft fingers pulled at the leather band holding back his hair before casting the fire Sign towards the clear water of the tub. Geralt watched it froth for a moment before lowering himself in. 

He groaned as the mineralled and magicked water enveloped him and soaked into his wounds. The hot liquid and steam seeped into his nooks and crannies, caressing him where his skin was softest while massaging where it was tough. The tub was deep enough that Geralt could nestle into the water to the point where only his head peeked above where his hair floated across the surface, pale and thick upon the murkiness caused by the filth of the path. 

He popped open the wooden vial and poured a generous dollop of the bathing liquid into his palm before lathering it across his scalp. Geralt hissed as his fingers caught against another wound on the back of his head where his hair had matted with blood. 

“Fuck,” groaned the witcher, fingers picking through the clotted mess and adding to the turbidity of the water. Geralt laid back against the tub and huffed hot air from his nose before detangling his hair. 

Glistening with bathing oil, Geralt recast the Sign and shuffled back into the heat of the water. His skin was as raw as could be and his mind floated back into that warm space where the voices would call his name. He ran through those which he could categorise before falling back to the final one. 

“Geralt?” It seemed worried, that voice the witcher wasn’t sure how to place. . . somber almost. Although relieved. Geralt squeezed his eyes shut until blooms of colour filled the canvas of his eyelids and morphed alongside the low calling of his name. 

The colours shifted into a hazy room, he felt plush furs and silken sheets against his skin. His sword-calloused fingers slid across rich fabrics which sat against a heady warmth. 

“Geralt?” 

The room was lit dimly by what the Rivian supposed were candles, scattered around a room and muted by thin curtains surrounding the bed. 

“Geralt?” 

He smelled clementines, rich and full, so near, as though the fruit’s nectar had dribbled down his arm while he lounged. 

“Geralt?” Brinna? What was she doing– “You’ll prune up, witcher!” The dryad huffed, her cool hand slapping against the Rivian’s bare shoulder. “Come, let’s get you something to eat.” 

Geralt blinked himself back into the present, it seemed as he had fallen into meditation. The water had cooled to the brink of uncomfortable and the wounds from his battle had almost completed their healing process. 

“Brinna, where is my armour?” Asked the witcher as his heavy arms hoisted his body from the tub. 

“It’s being mended at the armourer. Here,” she placed a bundle of linen wear on the bed of roots after picking up the bowl, “Some clothes.” 

“You’ve an armourer in Brokilon?” Asked Geralt. 

“Well, in Milva Laeke we’ve an armourer. Not all Brokilon is settlement,” explained the dryad, unfazed at the witcher’s nudity as he treaded, sopping wet, across the grass to his new clothes. 

“How large is Milva Laeke? I ran into one of the borders when I first entered Brokilon not long ago,” the witcher pulled the new pair of braies over wet legs before shucking on his leather trousers. 

“Quite large, I’d say the size of a small human city. I am guessing when I say that you’ve been in a non-human settlement before?” 

“I have,” said Geralt, pulling a light undershirt over his shoulders, “In Skellige; Baeg Blath,” he fussed with the buckle of his boots. “Not nearly as large as Milva Laeke.” 

“Baeg Blath, huh?” Hummed Brinna, tapping a finger to her chin. “Well then, come along witcher. We’ve yet to introduce you to council.” 

/// 

Geralt followed the blur of pale green outside of the large tent, shucking the belts of his longsword’s holster over his head. The leather sat snugly against the muscle of his chest, cushioned only by the thin fabric of his borrowed linen shirt. 

A hazy light washed over the settlement, sun between the trees and its diluted light through the invisible border enveloping Milva Laeke. The sun had nearly set as the dryad led the witcher from the camps to the central square. 

“We hold a nightly dryad market once in a while,” said Brinna, slowing her steps to match the witcher’s, “Mainly travellers purchase their wares here. It’s nicely priced, I’d say. My mother holds one of the kiosks. Is this common for Baeg Blath?” 

“They too had kiosks and shoppes of many wares,” Geralt eyed the bustling settlement, “Although there weren’t as many people.” Citizens had begun their nightly chores, lush carpets were aired and dusted around them, dwarves and goblins packed up their wares to make room for the women’s market which ran through the night. Eyes widened around Geralt as he hulked beside Brinna, his holster patting the back of his thigh as he walked. It was much simpler finding purchase on the flattened floor of the settlement than the forest surrounding. 

“Interesting,” hummed the dryad, “Haven’t had the chance to leave Brokilon, although I would much like to visit this Baeg Blath.” 

“No doubt you’d be accepted there,” Geralt nodded as they approached a large hall structure whose entrance buzzed with non-humans. 

“Geralt of Rivia, as I live an’ breathe!” Before Brinna had the chance to open the door to the hall, a rumbling voice called behind the pair. Geralt turned on his heels and was greeted by a stocky half-dwarf, his donkey and his daughter. 

“I’ll join you later Brinna,” said the witcher, wracking his brain for clues as to who the half-dwarf might be. 

“Of course, don’t be long,” the dryad watched for Geralt’s nod of approval, her eyes flicking between the two men before making her way through the large doors. 

“Wouldn’t be surprised if you’ve forgot me!” Grinned the half-dwarf at Geralt’s quizzical gaze, he extended a chubby hand which the Rivian shook. 

“You’d be correct,” he held back a sigh of relief, the spread of news of his amnesia could come back to bite him later. Best to keep it to himself whenever possible. “Apologies.” 

“Nah, don’ worry yerself too much. We barely knew each other even then. . . Thalzar, at yer service and this is my steed; Madam Miriam.” 

“Thalzar, it rings a bell,” lied the witcher as the half-dwarf rumbled a belly laugh. 

“You were headed t’ supper?” 

“I was, with the dryads.” 

“Love them with me great heart but all dryads eat ‘re shitty boiled veggies. Come along, we’ll have us a man’s supper of my hunt and catch up a mo’ o’er me father’s ale.” 

“Alright then, lead the way Miriam.” 

“ _Madam_ Miriam.” 

“‘Course.” 

/// 

Thalzar stroked his beard and lit his pipe while his daughter pranced around the two men and donkey, her thick, natural hair bouncing behind her. The half-dwarf explained that he’d wed a human woman who’d birthed him a wonderful girl. She was a professor at Oxenfurt who brought her scriptures and research to Milva Laeke with Thalzar so that the two of them could raise their child in the least judgmental setting possible for dwarven-kid. 

Sure, the girl’s feet and hands were a little large, her frame a little stocky, although Geralt would not have thought twice that she was anything other than human. She launched herself at her father with a bright giggle. 

“Your wife spends her days in the settlement?” 

“That she does, o’er winters she visits the folks up at Oxenfurt. . . speakin’ of, Velen’s nearing. Where are you plannin’ t’stay?” Asked the half-dwarf before returning his daughter’s hug and helping her onto Madam Miriam’s saddle. 

“Haven’t thought about that. I’m sure I’ll find a place as well before the thick of the cold comes in.” Geralt returned Thalzar’s daughter’s wave as she beamed at the men. 

“Interestin’. . . well, I’m no expert on witchers. Would you mind pheasant for supper?” 

“Not at all, my thanks Thalzar.” 

“Don’t thank me yet ol’ friend, you’ve not even eaten yet!” 

“We’ve been mariminatin’ th’ meat!” Yelled the half-dwarf’s daughter atop her donkey. 

“ _Marimi_ – Melit ele saves . _Marinatin’_ my love, ma-ri-nay-tin’,” Thalzar swiped a large hand over his bald head and chuckled. 

“Ma-ri- _nay_ -tin’!” His daughter grinned. 

“There y’are sugar plum, think you could run off with Madam Miriam back to th’ cottage?” 

“I could, I could!” 

“Off ya go then,” he pushed the donkey along the path before them before her steps became hurried and she led the way. 

“She’s lovely,” Geralt smiled. 

“Lillna, it was her grandmother’s name. And ain’t she just? Light of my life,” Thalzar grinned around a particularly thick puff of smoke and they continued on, both watching Madam Miriam pass a hill before them. The halfling paused mid-stride, bodily turning to look at the witcher when Lillna was out of sight. “Why are you here, Geralt?” 

The Rivian’s lips formed a straight line. “A contract.” 

Thalzar barked a humourless laugh, “Let me guess? Beast of Brokilon?” The witcher kept his mouth shut. “Y’really don’t remember anythin’ do ya?” 

“What are you trying to say, Thalzar?” Geralt’s voice lowered slightly. 

“I’m trynna say that you should skip the pheasant at mine and go off t’eat yer veg while I figure out what the fuck t’do with ya.” 

“You–” 

“I’ll find ya ‘fore ya leave Brokilon. Need t’clear my head,” the half-dwarf grumbled, taking a few final puffs of his pipe. 

“Right,” huffed Geralt, turning to take the path back to the grand hall. 

/// 

The sun had set, and the women’s night market was set in full swing by the time Geralt reached the building. Heavy doors of oak swung open to reveal a large dining area, scents of rich spices, root vegetables and pickled onions swirled around the cosy space, lit by fireflies and the flames of little candles. Dryads and hamadryads alike sat together at large tables, a few elves and half-bloods of various species scattered between them. 

Geralt’s eyes tracked the very green bodies clothed in heavy leaves and some even with old furs with a quizzical look. He was certain that he would have remembered these women if he had met them prior to his amnesia. 

Geralt huffed at the appreciative glances from the feast-goers, who’d gotten used to the slender, lithe men and women of the forest. It was no surprise that the strong, heady body of the witcher would clash when sat amongst the forest folk. He was aware of the thick curves of his musculature brought on through decades of tolling work and exposure to all elements and was certainly aware of their allure to those conditioned to skinny, agile bodies. 

Although he did not entertain the dryad’s and elves’ fantasies for the moment as Brinna was sat beside Maréll at one of the large tables at the head of the room which seemed to seat the warrior dryads. She waved brightly at the sight of the witcher, beckoning him to their table. 

“I hope you don’t mind vegetables,” smiled Brinna, following Geralt’s trek through the dining hall. 

“You took your time witcher, definitely smell cleaner,” Maréll grinned cheekily at the Rivian. “Shove off a touch Lera,” she gestured with a flick at the dryad sat across from her, who moved further down the table with a huff. 

Brinna mouthed a quick apology to Lera as Maréll pointed to the empty stool which Geralt straddled over. The sisters slid over a few bowls of the evening’s meal. Geralt didn’t hesitate before chowing down on the boiled potatoes and caramelised mushrooms on offer. 

“Who was that man, Geralt?” Asked Brinna. 

“An old friend,” the Rivian barely paused his attack on his supper. 

“Slow down champ, you’ll cramp up your jaw,” laughed Maréll waving her spoonful of leafy, vegetable stew. 

“Hm,” grunted the witcher in reply. 

“Forgot to tell you that mother has ordered a new bow hold from Gritten,” said Brinna around her mouthful of boiled cabbage. 

“Yeah? Finally, some good news. . .” Maréll picked at her food before sighing, “Don’t shout, alright?” 

“Shout?” Her sister’s brows furrowed. 

“Yeah, promise you won’t yell.” 

“Alright, I promise,” Brinna frowned, popping a bit of bread into her mouth. 

Maréll chewed on the inside of her lower lip before gesturing between her sister and the Rivian. “Woédgláes has asked for him.” 

Brinna’s chewing slowed and Geralt’s gaze shifted between the two dryads while he ate. “You told her we found him?” 

“I did.” 

“Well then. . . when has she asked to meet?” 

“At the nightly council. After supper.” 

“Woédgláes?” Asked the witcher as a dwarf made their rounds depositing tankards of water to their table. 

“She will inevitably tell you who she is,” chuckled Maréll. 

“Yes, you’ll find out shortly, Geralt. Our thanks for cooperating so far.” 

“Not much of a choice,” the Rivian said around his potato, eyes roving across the hustle and bustle of the large hall before settling on the table at the head of the room. 

There in the centre of the grand table sat a dryad with dark, olive skin and auburn dreadlocks, her eyes shone a bright blue. While the dryads around her held their raucous conversations and laughed with great energy, she nursed her wooden bowl of water and stared intensely at Geralt. 

He expected that that was Woédgláes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Milva translates to ‘bird’ and laeke translates to ‘lake’ in Elder Speech. Almost all Dryad dialect was made up and isn’t critical to the story although:  
> ‘Ar kurs, er wird es schaffen’ translates to ‘Of course, he’ll make it’ 
> 
> ‘Es kenne, es kenne, besorn vas’ll creassa er tua’ translates to ‘I know, I know, just worried what’ll happen when he does’ 
> 
> ‘N’te, n’te, dormi’ translates to ‘No, no, rest’ 
> 
> Woédgláes is based on Woédgláeddyv, a character in the Polish Witcher roleplaying game who was a princess in Maribor before her mother took her back to Brokilon where she was turned into a dryad. (WOW!!! Over 700 hits, I truly can't believe that people are liking my little story this much! See you all next week!!!)


	9. Woédgláes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please heed the new tag(s) and enjoy. . .

The bow that sat hooked across one of  Woédgláe s ’ shoulders  was impressive, dwarfing that of the other dryad’s weapons and, a s Geralt slow ed his chewing, golden eyes continued tracking across the bright ,  youthful faces  that  sat around him . He caught onto the glee shared  between young dryads, the fleeting looks and  chirpy conversations in a dialect of a language he’d barely found his footing in.

As the night carried on, a travel ling non-human bardic duo filled the lulling energy of the great hall with  foot-stamping song in exchange for meals and a place to stay. The witcher had overheard mention of them hailing from Oxenfurt ’s academy of the arts and could not help but wonder if Dreana and Roach were faring well back in Gors Vellen where they’d spotted the  bards Callonetta and Dandelion.

A heavy kick in the shin below the table broke Geralt from his reverie . He looked up to see Mar é ll’s wide eyes  narrow ing briefly a s she gestured with her head towards Brinna who stood from the communal bench. The witcher followed the pair towards Woédgláe s’ table . Her eyes seemed to brighten as they drew closer. With a short command  foreign to Geralt, the commotion of the dining hall fell to a close and many of the seats were emptied.

“Witcher,” her accent was more pronounced than he’d heard from Brinna and Maréll.

“ Woédgláe s .”

She beckoned for him to sit at her table which the dr y ads had cleared. It seemed that the  nightly council was in session. Topic of interest: Geralt of Rivia.

“What b r ings you?” She extended a goblet  to him, filled with nectar-sweet water.

“ A contract. For the Beast of Brokilon,” he sniffed at the  liquid.

“ Oh, how interesting. Well, you’ve found it.  I am the Beast,” spoke  Woédgláe s, quite sure of herself. Geralt took a sip of water.

“ Then what of the leshen deeper into  the forest ?”

“Precisely.  . .” She said. “ What of it? ” The pair locked eyes. “You ’re readying yourself for a battle of which you do not fit, Geralt,” she adjusted  the length of her bow over her shoulder, “ The leshen survives as it does , we are in no position to harm it.”

“It killed  the order of Gors Velen–”

“Who were sent here to kill  _ it _ . Basic self-defense, witcher .”

He paused, eyeing the dryad as she took a  long  drink from her goblet .

“If I may,  Woédgláe s?” A tiny voice rang from behind their grand table. One smaller dryad  ambled through the crowd which hesitantly dispersed from around her. She wore leatherskin trousers and a heavy necklace made of shells .

“Ellis, what is it?”

“My sister, of humankind, she lives up in the mountains at a second non-human settlement.  It is a touch smaller than Milva Laeke although home to many beasts who survive in the caves and caverns in the crevices of the mountains. If it pleases, we can direct the leshen to there.” She trilled.

“I agree, having the leshen this near to humans  is problematic,” nodded Maréll, crossing her arms over her chest.

“It could be worth a try  Woédgláe s,” said Brinna.

The witcher eyed each of the dryads as they agreed, nodding slightly in agreement.

“Well, it seems as though the council has decided for us, Geralt?” Hummed  Woédgláe s from within her goblet .

“I agree.”

“We shall head off at first  dawn, the leshen hunts in the light of the sun between the further openings of Brokilon. It may be a trek  so bring myself and our guest here a steed each .”

“My thanks  Woédgláe s,” said Geralt.

“Do not thank me, witcher, thank the council,” said  Woédgláe s.

///

Geralt had settled into his tent for the night, separate to Brinna and Maréll who had found their way to  Woédgláe s ’ larger tent. From the sounds and scents the witcher had  encountered on his trek back to his camp, he was sure that following nightly council the dryads seemed to get up to  more. . . erotic business.

He found it in himself to not be bothered by a lack of invitation to  the dryad’s orgy. Although, given the option, he would have readily accepted a night with the green -skinned women , a few of  whom had taken real interest in bedding a witcher .

Geralt sighed at the sight of a full bath  sat  deeper in his sleeping quarters . Quickly divulging himself of his shirt, boots , and trousers, he settled into the lukewarm water . One cast of the fire Sign later, Geralt comfortably lay, poaching in the scorching  heat. 

He peeled off the bandages Brinna’d plastered on,  humming as the water settled against the raw but healed skin of his wounds . He pulled the leather band from his hair . The witcher settled his head against the rim of the bath and dragged a hand across his face,  frowning at the stubble there. He wondered why  he had even had the compulsion to shave  with every chance he’d got. It was not convenient to keep at  that habit.

Deciding to forego another shave, Geralt  ran his fingers through his hair , making sure to work at any knots before sighing once more and closing his eyes to the comfortable heat .

After a  moment of  soothing meditation in the bath, he heard something nearby.

“ _ Geralt, _ ” the water had stopped bubbling  from the Sign  by then and he was certain that he was alone in  the tent. The voice rang through his mind. He concentrated on it, it sounded slightly different than the other  moments . It was low and rang powerfully, although seem ingly at the mercy of something stronger .

It sighed heavily into the crooks of his head.

“ _ Good _ ,” it said and Geralt found it in himself to hum, although his throat was  obstructed, and his mouth felt full.  The voice filled the blackness behind the witcher’s eyes, adding to the warmth of the water around him. He wished to reply but the heavy heat between his lips kept him to a low murmur of undistinguishable words.

It sighed once more, a hot and heady thing before  Geralt felt the water at his front settle against his skin like silk ,  moulding to the curves of the muscles of his  arms , his abdomen . To the peaks of his thighs and the length of his cock.

“ _ Must you _ _. . . _ _ tease _ . ” The voice rang deep  into the witcher’s chest and he breathed hotly against the warmth in his mouth in reply.

Geralt felt phantom fingers  of one hand intertwine with his own as the others massage d against his scalp .  Scratching through his hair in gratitude. The silk against his front  cooled his rapidly heating body and he seemed to lack the self-control to not  undulate his hips  in little circles against it. J ust  enough to release some tension  in his groin. 

The hotness in his mouth seemed to pulse , the back of his head was firmly but comfortably cupped into  the push . Breathing was easy, Geralt knew this rhythm. Innately, he had guessed.

Then began the scent, his nostrils barraged  with such a  thrilling and improbably familiar musk. So close. Close enough to nestle his nose into it and breathe it in with great intensity.

At this,  Geralt’s cock  plumped tremendously  fast. A knowing  huff came from the voice in his head and those phantom fingers clutched at  the shorter hairs  at the base of the witcher’s skull .

“ _ Good _ ,” it repeated , he felt more than heard the next sigh. Thick blood pumped slowly through his ears,  Geralt was happy to relax into the push and pull of  the motion . Although he ha d quickly  discovered  that his ruling passion seemed to thrive  when his  nostrils were pressed so completely  into the source of that  ambrosial scent.

Then began the taste. The witcher ’s breath caught against the silken heat in his mouth, tapering into a whimper as the voice filled his head once more with an answering hum of its own. Low and rumbling from the depth of  its chest.

The musk had translated into a salty warmth  which throbbed with every shift of the witcher’s tongue. There was barely any blackness behind his eyes, now filled with bright kaleidoscopes of colours with each pertaining to the senses he was allowed .

A tightening of the fingers at his own,  bright blue. A flutter of a palm sliding across his pectorals, orange. Down his abdomen and scratching at the course hair beneath his naval, bright red.

A hand gripped at his cock,  pushing and pulling to the same rhythm of the heat in his throat. He gasped around it, sinking lower to the tuft where that raw scent flooded from . The tip  of his prick  would caress  the silk against his body with every  stroke . 

He felt himself give in to the  lazy thrusting  of his  cock in to the cavern of his fist, slickened just enough by the water surrounding . He could no longer hear the voice in his head, and t hose phantom hands dissipated from their grasp on his skin and hair.  His throat was freed from t he solid length it had moulded around and he was free to  whimper hotly into the humid air as  his thighs trembled  around the spurting cock between.

Geralt’s gaze was bleary as he watched his spunk  disperse through the  sullied water of his bath. He held back a  hiss as his fingers released his soften ing cock and the water  rushed to envelop it completely .

The witcher sighed and heavily  dunked his shoulders beneath the surfac e, spreading each foot on either side of the bath’s rim as the cool  water slid across his  hottest parts.

_ Gods _ . 

That was quite a departure from his usual interaction with any of the voices from distant memories yet unreached. Was what he experienced. . . a memory? A hot shiver ran  from his toes to the crown of his head as stale arousal ebbed  through him. The witcher relaxed into the afterglow of his orgasm before slowly stretching from the  water.

After a quick and final scrub,  all evidence of his  fun was  drained, and he found himself enveloped in the thin linen against the bedding the dryads had provided. Geralt made a point of  sleeping naked on the bedroll , the linen cloth settled coolly across the planes of his body , knees curled slightly to his chest .  He would deny  that this mimick ed a post-coital cuddle for the rest of his days .

///

The barrier between Milva Laeke and Brokilon warbled as they broke through . With a  neat trot behind the  half  dozen dryads before them, Geralt’s steed ambled beside  Woédgláe s’.

“You’ve a task to fulfil, witcher ,” she said, following a few moments of silence before the dryads had spread further around.

Geralt turned to face her for a moment before adjusting his position on the horse, it seemed versed in finding trajectory through the wracked path of brambles, roots and slush alike. Woédgláe s continued.

“ Somewhere to be, you hurry there, although. . . can’t quite place where you go. . .” her light eyes flick ered between Geralt’s and the path of the forest before them. “You’ve a life before this one, remembering only moments. You’ve a long journey ahead, yet so far have barely followed the light of the sun at its uppermost. You swivel around yourself, witcher, hunting for a task you know exists and picking up others along the way.”

It had become quite clear that many of the people Geralt had met knew quite a bit more about himself than he did.

“What can you tell me about this task?” Geralt’s voice rang low amongst the rustling of the shrubbery beneath  the steed’s hooves and the bare feet of the half dozen dryads.  Woédgláe s only smiled.

“ I’ve heard that  Thalzar has something for you o nce we are finished here. Shall you trust him?”

The witcher spoke after a moment of shuffling and heavy leaves being pushed aside. “Not seen a reason not to.”

“Good. He’s been a key part of the settlement for as long as I can remember. I would trust him also.”

They quietened down while approaching the clearing where Geralt had first seen the leshen. The dryads  cocked their ears to the sky while he sniffed the air.

“Not here,” he said.

“Not yet,”  Woédgláe s replied. She dismounted her horse and unlatched her satchel of arrows from its saddle, readjusting her bow .

“I propose a trap,” said Maréll from not far off.

Geralt’s armour had been repaired, free of charge from the dryad leader , and his weapons sharpened and polished. He unsheathed his silver sword and followed Woédgláes  on foot. His boots covered the invisible tracks she made with her bare feet while traversing through the complicated climate.

“If we are to reason with it, a trap will do us no good, Maréll,” replied the dryad, her light eyes acknowledging  Maréll’s plan. “Wait here,” she  shucked her satchel of arrows  over her free shoulder before diving her way up the nearest tree, disappearing between the thick overhead.

A harrowing call, a howl mixed with some sort of foreign garble echoed over the treetops.  Woédgláes came down and gestured for the  group  to  move further through Brokilon on foot .

It came as no surprise that their gathering had piqued the interest of the beast as the sun had not yet reached its apex  by the time they heard the cawing of crows and the distant growl of wolves. Woédgláes’ call had worked.

The witcher and  the dryad were the ones to  push through the thick shrubbery of the next clearing where it stood . Hulking and creaking like old wood,  scenting of moss and mushrooms with hot breaths perspiring  in the light. The leshen. Its maw was not bloody , although the growls sounding from its ribs sounded hungry.

Woédgláes held out her arm across the witcher’s chest, pushing him behind her as she crouched slightly. The group watched with keen interest as the leshen  crouched slightly in greeting.

The dryad  repeated the call, crouching further as the leshen roared in reply. Its antlers reared back as it flicked its head to and fro. Woédgláes  nodded towards Ellis who breathed slowly behind the witcher.

She dwarfed in comparison to the beast in the clearing although her spirit was strong, and the dryads sensed this. She stood a few yards from the leshen, crouching a little  nearer to the forest floor before making her plea. “ Esseath  toille ‘ere !” She s poke in dryad dialect to which  Geralt turned to Brinna. The leshen roared in reply.

“You are unhappy here,” she translated in whispers .

“Va  ev á lienne en  ban n é n  f á en  á rde!” Yelled Ellis,  waving her arms to the east before throwing a large roll of parchment to the floor between her and the beast . The leshen’s gaze slowly followed the direction of her erratic gestures.

“There is a settlement not far in the mountains,” whispered Brinna.

“’Eren th á caene  á rd hen!”

“Where you can grow old . ”

“ An riamh  f á ec  dhu é n  rith!”

“And never see us again.”

“Riamh f á ec le rith !” Ellis gestured to Geralt.

“Never see him again.”

“Riamh f á ec  donn é rith!”

“Never see humans again.”

The dryads all breathed as one, awaiting  a signal from the leshen. Whether it had agreed or no. Whether they would have to make use of the heavy armour hanging before their chests , and of the poison-tipped arrows hanging over their shoulders or if they could retreat with no bother .

With bated breath, Geralt kept the muscles of his right arm engaged in preparation to pounce at his silver sword which  he had slathered in oil from  recipes forged  with memories of Abigail’s teachings. The rest of her recipes were with Roach, safe back in Gors Velen . 

The woods around them seemed to creak and moan as a heavier gale set into the clearing . Fat leaves warbled and the far-off cawing of crows broke through. Above  them, they circled before the most courageous dipped and landed on the roll of parchment. It pecked once and cawed before picking it up and pushing effort into every flap to  re join the murder above.

The leshen took one long look at Geralt, its dead face  blanched grim, before the crows dove towards it and it disappeared under the frantic flapping of their wings.

Ellis sat on the forest floor with a  heavy sigh and  Woédgláe s laughed aloud, triggering the rest of the dryads. “That was one way to do it,” she grinned. “Good work Ellis .” The dryads launched to helping the overwhelmed youngster back to standing and heading to camp .

“That was courageous,” said Geralt , joining the  group after checking over the clearing once more .

Ellis only smiled at him and continued forwards back to the settlement.

///

The next nightly council  was  waived in order for  Ellis’ grand party to continue . Geralt was  gifted a pair of thick, leather thigh guards  studded with little copper plates  for his troubles.  Woédgláe s threatened to throw them in the fire  were he not  to  accept.

She reminded him of Thalzar, told him where the dwarf’s hut  stood near the border of Milva Laeke and bid him farewell. Not before granting him full prowl of Brokilon under the watchful eye and protection of the dryads. She welcomed him back to the settlement whenever he saw fit.

Brinna  gave him the recipe for their honeyed bandages which  aided much in alleviat ing his wounds  and Maréll  gifted him  a few vials of the poison the dryads used on the tips of their weapons were he to ever need it. The moon was low in the sky by the time he said his goodbyes and  pursued Thalzar’s hut.

///

The dwarf, when greeted, apologised for his cryptic behaviour  last afternoon and offered Geralt some of that  pheasant meat.

“Fact o’ th’matter is. . .” he paused for a long couple of dregs of peach wine, “ I know who yer lookin’ for. An’ I know who’s lookin’ for you.” Geralt slowed his chewing and nodded for Thalzar to continue. “ Now, I know not o’ how much I c a n really say but. . . yer headed  north, aye?”

“I am.”

“Well, Oxenfurt should be yer next stop. S’all I c a n say on that. Y ou’ll be sure t’find yer next lead . . .” he pushed another plate of roasted potatoes to the witcher, “’Till then, I’ve somthin’ t o  pass on.” Thalzar hobbled from his  place at the table to go rummaging through one of his many chests.

“Oxenfurt. . .” Geralt hummed,  placing a portion of  pheasant and potato  into his  mouth .  Thalzar’s daughter,  Lillna,  quietly  joined him not long after. The dwarf  turned from the chest and  looked as though he was readying to scold her but stopped with a fond sigh at the sight of her enjoying the meal.

“ Y’can’t miss it,” he said falling back into his chair , “ An ’ ‘ ere,” he slid a thin box of varnished oak between the pots and  plates on the table . “Yer t o  open this  soon as ya get far ‘nuff from ‘ere an’ once ya find yer lead in Oxenfurt. . . well. . . pox on it, ‘m sure  he ’ll find ya first. Though. . . ” Thalzar  went back to his chest, pushing and prodding its contents before he turned with a small parcel wrapped in old parchment and tied with twine. “You’ll find my wife in the Academy ,” he explained, “Hand this t’her. She’ll have yer pay.”

Geralt picked up the thin package, slightly shorter and thinner than his forearm, and with a careful nod slid it  into the space between his sword  sheath  and his brigandine. He also took the parchment-wrapped parcel from Thalzar’s hands. “Seems you know more about my situation than I do. Why can’t you give me any more information?”

“Bound by th ’ word, Geralt . Can’t change tha t . I’d love to tell ye ‘bout all but some things’re better left for ya t o  find out.”

“Hmm,”  the witcher had cleaned his plate off by then. “My thanks for your hospitality , then .”

“Yer very welcome.  I ’ll  be sure to  pack  some for ya to take. Made some jerky too, ‘ll throw ‘t int a the parchment.”

The  handle of Geralt’s silver sword knocked slightly on the wooden ceiling of Thalzar’s hut as he stood.

“Father ‘pologise to ya  mister?” Asked Lillna, hopping from her seat and joining the men outside.

Thalzar huffed and scratched the back of his neck for a moment as Geralt confirmed the dwarf’s apology . He bid Milva Laeke farewell as the first rays of light  cast a lighter blue across the night sky , the thin package  adding a peculiar weight to his stride .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate title: A Witcher’s Journey with Phantom Cock. . .  
> Sadly this is the last prewritten chapter my dear readers, so updates will be sporadic and correlate to whenever the next chapters are completed. As university and work have kicked into high gear I'm not sure I can give an estimate as to when the next update is coming out and I might have to throw a hiatus symbol on this story until I get back on track so major apologies for that!!!  
> Thank you all so much for coming on this journey and I will see you beautiful readers at the next update <3


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